


a place we've never lived

by ratherembarrassing



Category: Glee
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-02-09
Updated: 2014-04-01
Packaged: 2017-10-30 20:45:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 54,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/335878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ratherembarrassing/pseuds/ratherembarrassing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Santana moved to Boston after high school. So did Mike. But this is six years later.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

She's not going to yell, even if they are five-hundred dollar boots.

It's cold, and early, and if Mike doesn't have coffee waiting for her, she might actually strangle him. Winter has dragged on longer than she can ever remember; it's still completely intolerable, but the hint of a break in the weather has brought everyone out, and they are getting in her damn way.

"Jake, get off of there."

Boots, fine, whatever, she can get those fixed. Her kid's head, if he falls off the icy ledge and cracks his skull open, not so much. Jake jumps off the garden edge he's balancing on, and steps on her toe again, leaving another mark behind with his bright orange sneakers.

She will not yell, but she seriously needs some coffee or someone is going to get maimed with a pair of scissors.

...

Normally she'd still be in bed, the pillow over her head failing to block out the sound of shitty dance music coming from the lounge room as Jake's footie pajama-covered feet thump on the wooden floors. The Xbox for his fifth birthday had been her idea, but the dance games to go along with it were all Mike. She finds repetitive gunfire oddly soothing, but J-pop at 9am on a Saturday morning is too much, and she usually ends up telling Jake they'll be evicted and he'll have to go live with his Grandma if he keeps making so much noise on the floor.

This morning she'd prefer even unintelligible wailing over fighting through the crowd of enthusiastic tourists out shopping and local joggers, just to get to where Mike is sitting at the back of the cafe. There's an iPad resting on his propped up knee, two large, black coffees, six packets of sugar and a bottle of Nantucket Nectar on the table.

"Hey, we have the same shoes," Jake says as he ducks past the queue, slapping his hand against Mike's Air Jordan I Retros.

"That's 'cause we're both awesome. Come here," Mike pulls Jake over and kisses his forehead. "Where's your mom?"

"I'm here," Santana says, finally pushing past the crowd and dropping into the seat opposite Mike. "Is this place always so fucking stupid at this hour?"

"Hey, language, I don't care if you haven't had your coffee yet." Mike stuffs his iPad into his backpack, and hauls Jake onto his lap.

"It's fine, he knows he's not allowed to swear until he can grow enough hair on his face to shave." Santana winks at Jake as he giggles, because they have a secret deal that he can curse at home, but only if he really means it. (There's a list on the fridge of reasons why he might really mean it.)

Santana hands Jake his juice and goes about dumping half the packets of sugar into one of the coffee cups. She lets Mike and Jake go on about something she doesn't care about, almost certainly how much the Celtics suck this season and how they can't wait for Truck Day because this will be Jake's first time going to stand on Van Ness and watch them load up. She doesn't get it, the Boston sports  _thing_ , even if she enjoys baseball. Besides, she'd much rather just listen to Jake talk a mile a minute about how they're going to go to every game this season, all three of them, because Mike scored some admittedly choice season tickets.

Since he started school in the fall he's gone from being a grown version of the tiny baby she'd brought home from the hospital five years ago to this proper person-shaped kid, and the shit that comes out of his mouth now, it blows her mind. From the moment he opened his mouth, he's been a talker — not in that obnoxious way of kids who just don't shut up about anything, in truth he's really kind of shy for a someone related to her — but his vocabulary has just exploded with exposure to thirty-two little brats every day, and it's enthralling to listen to.

Still. She really would rather be in bed, Jake eventually quitting his game and curling up with her to tell stories about dinosaurs or ballerinas (one time it was about ballerina dinosaurs, and her ribs had ached from laughing), but the idiotic new girl on the front desk took a booking for 9am, when they are most definitely not open. Any other salon on Newbury would be open, but not hers. She likes to sleep in, and as if she's going to make any of her staff come in when she herself doesn't want to be there. People called her insane when she cut her Saturday morning hours, but it just increased the growing hype around them, and it hasn't made a difference to their revenue. They stay open later than most places, and Friday nights got written up in some local street press as the place to be seen pre-night out; it was a sort of joke by a journalist friend, but it had been picked up by some blogs and, yeah, it shoved them up the food chain a bit.

Apparently whoever this booking is for wouldn't take no for an answer — no, their PA wouldn't — and had just kept offering more money until Julia or Joanna or whatever her name is was too flustered to keep saying no.

It better be someone fucking amazing, but she's still not getting up until she's finished her first coffee.

...

She's practically napping in her seat when Jake leaps off Mike's lap and picks up his backpack.

If something happens to him today, Santana's going to kill Mike. She knows she's just tired and annoyed because she had to wake up early, but the day has her on edge, and the only thing she gives a shit about is Jake, so.

Mike just better fucking take care of him.

(Mike is, let's be real, the best dad ever. They both recognize terrible fathers, from various points in their lives, and Mike's done nothing but prove every expectation Santana had about Jake's life completely wrong.

She probably knew he would when she was four months pregnant and he'd given her his bed after she had to move out of her dorm.)

"Kick butt, today, okay," is all she says, because people telling her to be careful had never done any good, and she knows Mike will give him the tools to be safe rather than some pointless lecture.

"You do know how to skate, don't you," she says to Mike, her tone only giving away a little of her concern.

"Not even a little," Mike replies, laughing. "You ready, kid?"

"Yeah," Jake nods, his Miami Heat cap bobbing up and down. He starts to dash away with a "bye, mommy," tossed over his shoulder, but screw that. Santana grabs the back of his hoodie hanging out from underneath his jacket and pulls him back between her knees, wrapping her arms around him from behind.

"No, mommy, not in public," Jake cries, but she's not having any of this. She kisses his cheek and tightens her arms around him. "See you later, my man," she says, and she hears him heave a dramatic sigh.

"Bye, mommy," he says again, but he kisses her back after she lets him go. She'll probably cry if he ever truly doesn't want to kiss her goodbye.

"I'll drop him by the shop after lunch, yeah?" Mike says, hitching his own backpack over his shoulder and the two boards under his arm.

"Whenever, he's excited to get you on a Saturday and I'm busy as fuck, so this worked out well." Mike usually has a matinee performance, but his show's on hiatus because of snow damage to the theatre. Seriously, screw this winter, but that worked out awesome for their Christmas plans.

"Okay. Later, San," he drops a kiss on her forehead, while she stays slumped back in her seat as they head out.

It's after 9am now, and she knows it — whatever, her bitch of a manager will be there setting up, so it's not like she's left some old so and so freezing on the street — but she really is not happy about whoever this is having bullied their way into an appointment. She's even less happy about the fact that if she'd called them back and told them to fuck off, whoever it is would probably fuck up her business just by opening their mouth. It's the one part of her job that she hates, that she's beholden to these weird, rich bitches and their continued patronage. Boston's not like New York or LA, where you get a name by doing people who already have a name.

The salon's on the same block as the cafe, and she grabs her second coffee and calls out a goodbye to Karen behind the counter. The coffee's no longer scalding hot, and she practically shoves her face into the cup as she makes her way down the street and into the salon.

...

All things considered, it isn't the worst day of her life, but this is probably going to make it number one for the year, and it's only January.

'This' being: Rachel Berry, yapping into her phone as she stands leaning against the front counter of her salon. Rachel Berry, complaining about the tardiness of her hairstylist, inside her salon. Rachel Berry, being her bitchass 9am appointment.


	2. Chapter 1, Part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a very big thanks to the regular crew of hand-holders.
> 
> if you are reading this somewhere that let me get away with not tagging the prologue, thanks for showing up in the first place :)

 

.............

 

And pardon her mistake, it's Rachel Hudson.

"Is this Candid Camera," she says out loud. "Are they remaking Punk'd?"

"Santana," Rachel asks, pulling the phone away from her ear. "Oh my god, hi."

"You're my 9am." It's not a question. She had a bad feeling about today, and oh look, here's that bad feeling come to life like Frankenstein's fucking monster.

"Hold on just a second," Rachel puts the phone back to her ear, turning away from Santana.

The urge to run away is making her legs shake in a way they haven't in years.

Rachel looks the same as always, flapping her gums like she's trying to catch bugs. Exactly like the Rachel Berry she would remember if she tried, only without the pedophile-bait outfits. Hey, she's not judging, she wore some seriously hideous shit in high school, too, and— see. This is the problem. Two seconds with this reminder of her past, her old life, and she's already thinking about high school.

No, thank you. This needs to go away.

Rachel's put her phone in her purse and is turning towards Santana and, shit, she doesn't need this.

"My god, Santana, it's so good to see you," Rachel is beaming at her like they're long lost pals, which, what the fuck? They sang some songs together a couple of times, they were never friends. The last time Santana saw Rachel was at some point — she has zero clue when exactly, possibly Finn and Rachel's wedding? — during the summer between high school and college. Rachel's wedding was definitely not on her priority list at the time, and she hasn't been back to Lima since she left for college.

(Mike's been going less and less over the years, and he's the only person from Lima she still talks to. Jake will never, ever set foot in that town, not if she has anything to say about it. Which she does.)

"You're a stylist? You're my stylist? That's amazing, I had no idea. Robert, my manager, just told Cassandra, that's my PA— he just told her to find the best in town, and surprise, that's you!" Not at all a surprise is the fact that Rachel can probably still talk under wet cement. "How are you? Seriously, you look amazing."

And then she laughs and fuck, there's just no way to stop that Rachel is reaching over to hug Santana, short of physically shoving her away.

She thinks about raising both her hands and pushing at Rachel's shoulders, pushing and pushing and pushing her out the door and back into what she thought was a very securely locked away part of her brain, clearly marked "Do Not Touch" and less clearly marked "High School". She thinks all these things, but there's movement over Rachel's shoulder, and Stacey, her bitch of a manager, is standing there staring like Jesus just walked in and told a filthy joke.

This probably is a weird sight, for about twenty five million reasons.

...

Also: she can't tell Rachel to get out.

Stacey might as well be the Newbury Street Gazette, for how quickly word would get around about her kicking a client out. Shit like that has cost her in the past, and only her actual talent kept her in a job long enough to learn to stop pulling that sort of crap, and she'd rather take a bath in peroxide and razor blades than have those stories come back again. She's a grown-ass adult now, she can act like one.

...

And seriously, fuck Stacey. So she's not affectionate with anyone, ever — besides her kid, obviously — but she's not a fucking leper.

...

Except acting like an adult isn't that easy.

Stacey disappears back into the office at Santana's glare, and that leaves just the two of them. Rachel's talking, but Santana's not listening, just steers Rachel over to her station, snatches the coat from her hands, and tells her to sit. She tosses the coat on the next chair over, before stepping up behind Rachel.

If Rachel says one word about Jake, she'll rip her hair from her scalp and charge her for the privilege.

"What's this for?" She rolls a lock of hair between her fingers.

"My usual stylist is in New York, and I have an event this evening. Actually, it's going to be—"

"How formal?" Rachel's hair is the same length it was in high school — she could have been a Cheerio on the strength of her hair, if she'd wanted — but someone good is currently cutting it. No more kindergartener's bangs and there's a sleek curl to the ends that make her look like a super hero. (Shut up, Jake loves Wonder Woman, but he can't read all the words on his own.)

"Oh, it's black tie. I've been invited to—"

"Okay. Just a trim and then something that will hold. Got it." She lets the hair sift between her fingers and steps away.

Santana tosses her own jacket into the back office, the black leather catching on the arm of the couch. She ignores Stacey, and hits play on the sound system as she walks back, her fingers nudging the volume knob up as they drag past. She works better with bass, and best without mindless chit chat.

...

She throws a towel at Rachel and shouts, "Come on, Yentl" over the music. Not even close to the best she could do, but she's very much out of practice on this particular target.

Rachel stands to follow, but drops the towel on her chair for a moment and pulls off her sweater. Nothing scary is revealed, just a black tank and toned arms. She drapes the towel around her own neck with a smile and moves over to where Santana is messing with the shampoo bottles.

Santana's never, ever been good at this part. Thankfully, the self-involved bitches that make up her usual client list these days have no problem filling the void, but whenever she's stuck with a non-talker, shit tends to get awkward fast. Then there are the creeps who get off on her touching their head, but that's a whole other story, and right now she's just glad she's made it basically impossible for them to have a conversation without shouting.

Rachel sits down, rests her head against the lip of the basin, and closes her eyes like it ain't no thang. What the fuck? Crazy bitch is just like, exposing her neck for Santana to slit it if she felt like it.

(She  _knows_  she's being her own kind of crazy bitch about this, but seriously. It's taken five and a half years to make the calm, mature person you see before you today. Shit like Rachel Berry appearing in her life out of nowhere? That threatens to undo all this wonderful growth she's achieved as a person. She doesn't even tear waitresses new assholes when they screw up her order anymore.)

A couple of things she thinks about as she runs the water over Rachel's hair and begins to lather it with shampoo: First, Rachel's hair smells like coconut, but that won't survive Salon Hair. Shame. Second, she wants Italian for dinner. Third, she hasn't checked her Facebook account in five and a half years plus a couple of weeks.

...

The first time she cut someone's hair, she had no idea what she was doing, and they never knew that at any second she could rain down destruction on their person and wouldn't know it until it was far too late.

The feeling terrified her.

Dumb luck and a good eye had saved that situation, but that level of recklessness was doing damage to her life and she was about to pass the damage onto someone else, and so she'd spent the months she grew as big as a damn house also learning how to remove a piece of someone without doing any harm.

...

There's a notch in the skull under her fingers and she wonders how it came to be; if something happened or if it's been there since birth.

(Jake has this ridge across the bottom of his skull that sometimes makes his hats fall off.

When he made the connection between something he'd seen on Discovery (horse breeding, that time, but he really loves shows about tigers) and humans, he wanted to know who he got his hair and his ears and his one wonky tooth from, but she struggled to explain why his head hated baseball caps even though he loves them so much. She wasn't about to explain to him exactly where babies come from because there's no need to traumatize the kid, and had settled on, "Not everything comes from a mom or a dad," and traced the scar on his knee from the time he fell in the park.)

She watches the soap bubbles wash down the drain, watches until the water runs clean, barely catching something about rain and snow coming from Rachel's mouth.

...

Rachel has fucking fantastic hair, and better for the change in cutting line Santana's made around her face. She suspects whoever cut Rachel's hair last was trying to minimize her giant schnoz, but honestly, what's the point in even trying? Besides, that photo from when Rachel had gone all Single White Female on Quinn junior year had given her nightmares. (She bites her tongue at asking if Rachel's still a vegan, because she doesn't give a rat's ass, but seriously, no Birkenstock-wearing lentil-lover she's ever met has had such nice hair.)

She resisted the urge to do Rachel's hair up, because despite pants suits at age fifteen and an addiction to old lady music, black tie formal doesn't mean she needs to look like a seventy-five year old woman. There's a natural curl all the way through that Santana wants to tell her to stop brushing out, and she's worked that up into a very deliberate bed head. So long as the weather stays as it is, and Rachel doesn't go home and have a marathon sex session with Finnocence — ew, she's given birth and yet the hint of a reminder of Finn and sex still makes her want to barf — she'll be good for the evening with half a can of hairspray and a few well placed bobby pins.

Point is, she didn't half ass this, even if she'd wanted to, but Rachel needs to go now so she can start pretending this never happened.

...

Rachel leaves her a one-hundred dollar tip on top of the seven-hundred dollars she'd apparently agreed to pay for Santana's services.

She'd have given it back along with a slap to Rachel's motorized mouth, but Stacey had taken care of it while Santana stood in the court yard out back and chain smoked three cigarettes. She's gonna need to brush her teeth before Mike brings Jake by, but she stays huddled in her jacket until her fingers start to tingle.

...

When Mike walks in with Jake a couple hours later, both having survived the morning's skateboard lesson, she doesn't mention the poltergeist from lifetimes past. They've been friends, and whatever else, long enough that he wouldn't even hesitate to get all up in her business, which she'd rather just not. Of course her business basically is his business, but that's beside the point.

Mike brought her some lunch from the van they had stopped at for themselves, as well as another coffee. They're sitting in the office, and Jake's getting ketchup all over his face as he tries to talk around his mouthful.

She knocks his hat off his head and checks for bumps while he wriggles around on her lap.

"Mommy, I wore my helmet," he says.

"I'm just checking, okay," and she pulls his hat back into place. He jumps off her lap and his feet smack against the polished cement.

...

So Santana's day is going awesome, thanks for asking.

Jake tied his shoes perfectly all by himself for the first time, so they stopped for hot chocolate (for Jake, coffee for her because duh) on the way to school. It didn't snow the entire walk to school or back, and she made a repayment on the loan she took out for the salon that puts her less than a year away from being completely paid off. Now she's watching videos of dogs talking on the internet while she eats a sandwich. There's going to be lasagna for dinner, thank you Mrs Fogliano at the place on the corner of their block, and it's Dynasty rerun night. (Jake likes Alexis's shoulder pads. He thinks she's a super hero.)

Just a few more hours.

She actually loves her job. She loves being her own boss. She's a good little foot soldier when she needs to be, but she very quickly discovered there's very little need for that sort of thing out in the real world. She's great at running a business, she's good at dealing with bitches because no one out-bitches Santana Lopez, and she's kick ass at what she does, which is taking a sharp pair of scissors to someone's head.

Her sandwich finished, she shuts her laptop and heads out to the floor to meet up with her 2pm. She's just sent Julia (not Joanna) to go pick up some more coffee from down the street when Rachel walks in. Fuck, she wishes people would warn her about this sort of thing ahead of time. It can't be good for her heart, and she'd like to live to see her kid learn to read.

"Uh, hi?" It definitely comes out with a question mark.

"Santana, hello," Rachel beams, "I'm so glad you could fit me in. It's not quite the emergency it was the other week, but it seems the show's stylist cannot be trusted to use anything more than use a hairdryer and a comb."

Rachel's dressed in a pea coat and a fuzzy knit cap, black from head to toe, and she pulls the cap off, releasing her hair. Someone's turned the new line to the front of Rachel's hair into, shit, she can't even tell if they are supposed to be bangs or not. Why the fuck is Rachel smiling?

"You have a seriously warped sense of emergency," Santana says to herself, and takes a moment just to sigh, because, "Oh my god, please go sit over there before I lose the use of my eyes, Flowbee."

...

It's not really her fault that Julia returns with coffee then starts talking Rachel's ear off, and oops, Santana doesn't say a word to Rachel until they're done.

She wonders what she missed, because Rachel's acting like a perfect stranger. All she remembers from last time, what little she hasn't yet completely suppressed, is Rachel hugging her, then blah blah blah and then that insulting tip, so something must have happened during the blah blah blah.

It's been forever since she's sorted someone's bill out herself, and it's too late after Rachel is thanking her "so much, for everything", like, what? The words out of her mouth aren't matching up to anything that makes sense. And then she's out the door before Santana thinks to check if, yeah, there's another insultingly large tip.

...

They're running really late, but it's just kindergarten and according to all the stupid parenting books she's read, it's better to let kids slowly do boring tasks themselves than rush them through it with your help.

Jake is double-checking he has everything in his school bag when Rachel's complete lack of acknowledgement of any history between them at all pings as weird. If not for the part where this is exactly her choice of interaction with people she'd rather not be interacting with at all, it would be down right rude.

"Do you," she starts to say, later that night, after she and Mike have put Jake to bed and they're having a beer while football is on. They try to do dinner as a family at least once a week, which is difficult and why they always do Saturday mornings together. "How do you, when you go," she tries again, not even sure what she wants to ask.

Mike just looks at her from his place on the couch, and it's not just the place he's sitting on at that moment, it's the place he always sits. He waits, takes a couple of pulls from his beer, but he doesn't press.

"People thinking things is a bitch," is what she settles on. Mike just nods, because she's not making much sense, but this is an old theme. When he leaves after the Patriots win he kisses her cheek and says he'll bring dinner again tomorrow night, "Since I'm a gentleman of leisure and everything right now. I'll make you empanadas."

...

God dammit, seriously, she's going to start checking the appointment book since people keep not warning her about this.

(Not that she asked to be warned.)

What is with this woman and hair emergencies?

She really wants to say something, even just a "what the fuck?" She really wants to, but at this point it's just easier to grimace in Rachel's direction, send Julia for coffee — Rachel takes hers regular; New York regular, which last week she was surprised to learn is regular in Boston, too, like everything in New York is just so damn different — and call Rachel over with a spastic jerk of her head.

Turns out not to be an emergency at all, just a regular old hair appointment.

"I know I was here last week, but I've gotten used to having my hair done every week," Rachel seems almost defensive. Santana just shrugs because whatever, that's not even close to the weirdness she gets from some of the old society ladies who've taken a liking to her.

Santana takes Rachel's coat and actually hangs it up like a non-asshole, and Rachel sets her things on Santana's station. There's sheet music poking out out from the top of her purse, and it's almost funny how Santana can't get the image of Rachel's hideous tights out of her head. So much happened senior year, and even though it was then that they become friends, it's junior year that Rachel's presence in her life has more weight. Her world was very small that year, and things like hideous tights stand out.

Rachel's taking her sweater off again, and she shouldn't do that because she's just going to mess her hair up later.

...

She's talking about the weather again.

Apparently the cold is wreaking havoc on her skin or something, but Santana can't see it. She's busy working conditioner into the ends of each lock of hair and wondering why people pay money for this. The old society ladies she gets, but she has a handful of regulars her age — Rachel's age — who come in all the time just for a blow wave. It's not actually that hard to do yourself.

Rachel's obviously doing well for herself. Or Finn— no, that's too much. Rachel's got a PA, so it's all her. Of course it is. Finn is probably a stay at home husband. Maybe they have a kid already. The idea of Rachel ever having been pregnant is enough to make her bark out a laugh, and Rachel's eyes open, tracking up to where Santana's standing over her.

"Ow," she says with very little conviction, "hot water."

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah, happens all the time."

"Are you sure," Rachel goes to sit up, "I can get you some ice."

'From your purse?' is what Santana thinks, and nudges Rachel back down into the chair with a, "it's fine." She flips the water back on, but Rachel keeps her eyes open.

...

Rachel's pulling her sweater back over her head, and yes, it's fucking up her nicely finished hair. Santana just rolls her eyes as Julia appears at her side, but she's going to make sure Rachel doesn't tip her again, because she's not some whatever Rachel thinks she is.

"Go grab more towels from out the back," she says, because this doesn't need witnesses, even though the place is packed. "I'll fix Mrs Hudson up myself."

If she were turned even half an inch away she would have missed the look that passes over Rachel's face. That look that she knows she's worn herself, though not in a while.

"It's not," Rachel says, "Mrs Hudson."

Whoops.

"It hasn't been for a long time, now, actually."

The bite in there has Santana shutting her mouth on the words that want to come out, because, well shit, she'd want herself to shut up if she were in Rachel's position.


	3. Chapter 1, Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning for mention of vomit :)

And how disappointed is she that Finn didn't fall off a cliff and die. (Not really, but the guy was a tool and Rachel wasn't, so.)

She didn't ask and Rachel didn't offer.

Instead; "Hey, so, funny thing," she says to Mike the next day, "I did Rachel Berry's hair." She doesn't elaborate on when or how many times.

It's a Sunday night, which means she actually has tomorrow off work, and they're having drinks with some friends from back in the day. She hates traveling to Somerville, but it's where their bar is, and there are as many good memories as shitty here, so she doesn't always say no when people want to hang. Plus the owner doesn't mind if she brings Jake; she doesn't care if it makes her that person, her kid's not a pain in the ass and it's five in the afternoon.

"Really," is all Mike says, but his attention is fully on her. They're standing by the bar waiting for their beers. It's one of those places where the lighting is mostly provided by neon signs, and even when they started going there it wasn't a cool place to hang out, it was just a place to hang out and get served before they turned twenty-one. There's never a different crowed whenever they go back.

"What happened with her and Finn?" She can see his face out of the corner of her eye, but she's watching Jake play slaps with Tall Mike. Tall Mike is a guy who, at one time, literally carried her out of this bar over his shoulder and all the way back to her dorm. He's letting Jake win, and Jake knows it, so she's probably going to have to go over there soon before Jake gets mad.

"Rachel left him. Just packed up and split. She never goes back to Lima anymore," Mike pauses, waiting to see how she'll react.

It's funny to think that they actually have something, that particular something, in common. Funny like when someone tickles you until it hurts and they refuse to stop. She gets up from the table, Mike reaching for her elbow with a soft, "Santana," but she dodges him and goes over to where Jake is standing on his seat while Tall Mike holds his palm out.

But she forgot her beer. "Stop letting him win," she says to Tall Mike, and goes back over to Mike.

"Good for her." Mike frowns. "That she got out," she elaborates. "What the fuck was she even thinking, marrying him?" She shakes her head.

"Maybe the same thing you did, back then."

She picks up the beer that has just been placed in front of her, and leaves Mike to pay. Screw him, he knows better.

...

It's not like she woke up one morning with maternal instincts.

(It's almost exactly like that.)

Still, if your kid's puking his guts up at four in the morning, there's just some things you do without question. Even if it involves puke in her hair, that's nothing compared to the instant churning in her own gut whenever Jake's not one hundred percent okay.

Jake comes stumbling into her bedroom, barely making it through the doorway to call out to her before he loses it all over the polished floorboards. There's a night light just inside the entrance, for almost exactly this sort of thing, and she doesn't even put her glasses on, just smooths her hand down his sweat-soaked back and makes soothing sounds before scooping him up and very quickly carrying him to the ensuite and setting him down by the toilet bowl.

He's dry heaving, and they stay there for a long moment just in case, one hand making circles on his back and the other pushing his hair back. When he catches his breath, he sinks back onto her knees where she's kneeling behind him, his little frame shaking from adrenaline and tears leaking out of his eyes.

"I'm sorry," he says, rubbing his fist through the snot bubbling out of his nose and the tears turning into actual crying, "I didn't mean to."

"It's okay, baby," she says, pressing a kiss to his temple, "I know you didn't mean to." She rips off a couple of squares of toilet paper and wipes his face.

He's asleep in her bed, a bucket beside him, when she gets up with the sun and emails Jake's school and leaves a message on the salon's machine to cancel all her appointments. Stacey will flip her shit, but whatever.

The news is turned down low on the other side of the room, the weather still cold and the world still full of assholes, when Jake stirs, soft sounds of annoyance and a scowl on his face. He sits up before he's even got his eyes open fully, and she slides him across the mattress to lean against her side.

"How are you feeling, baby?"

"Huh," he's rubbing at his face and his eyes are drooping closed.

"You were sick, remember," she kisses his forehead, finding it warm under her lips.

"Oh," Jake says, "yeah."

"No school today, okay," she says, and knows he's actually sick when he just nods against her shoulder, eventually falling back asleep.

She's on the phone to Stacey an hour later when Jake starts fussing where he's still asleep tucked into her side, and she's just hung up when he curls into her with an aborted cry and throws up all over her, in her hair and down her shirt.

It's only whatever passes for maternal instinct in her that keeps her from throwing up herself — it's been a few years since this last happened, but she breathes through her mouth and waits until he's done to get both of them cleaned up.

...

She's pissed that she'd bothered to take her hair down because it takes forever to wash it out.

Jake's still in her bed, with fresh sheets and clean pyjamas that have rocket ships on them, when she comes out of the bathroom. He's flopped over a pillow watching Judy Jetson dance on the tv and she sits down beside him and scratches his back for a few minutes. Her hair is wet and she needs to do something about it, but it can wait for a moment.

The show ends, and Jake wriggles around to use her leg as a pillow. "Why'd I get sick?"

"I dunno, J-man. Maybe your tummy didn't like that pizza from last night." This is one of the strangest parts of being a parent, being responsible for knowing everything.

"Did I really eat that much pizza?" Jake's eyes go wide, as she starts combing her fingers through her hair.

"You must have, where else did all that come from?" Jake giggles a little, but he's still pretty tired. Her hair drips onto his face and he squirms away with a whine that might have been "Moooooooooom."

A moment later tiny fingers are at the back of her head, lifting up parts of her hair and separating it into pieces. His legs lean against her back and he passes each piece of hair over her shoulder. She's working on the last bit when he leans fully against her, head next to hers.

"Can we get a dog," he asks, and the smile on his face gives away that he already knows the answer (they don't have a yard and the floors would get scratched up) but he's asking anyway, just in case it changes.

"Not today," she says. "You can have some juice, though."

"Apple?"

"Is that all there is?" He likes grocery shopping with her, and he's got weirdly specific tastes for an only just five year old. He knows more about what's in their refrigerator than she does.

"Yes. The one with the black top, not the red one, please."

"Okay. You wanna pick a movie," she asks as she heads into the kitchen.

There's the sound of little footsteps as she flips on the coffee maker, and she can hear Jake digging through the box of his DVDs in the lounge room while she pours his juice. She thinks he's picked something out, but when the coffee's done and she comes into the lounge, he's standing in front of the bookcase where her DVDs are kept.

"Can we watch the one," he points, though she knows which one he means.

"We can watch that one." She sets their drinks on the coffee table, and Jake scrambles onto the couch, pulling the blanket over the back down over himself.

He's fast asleep by the time Dorothy's back in Kansas.

...

The next morning Jake's mostly fine, just tired and a little cranky, but her appointments for the day are a mess.

It's Saturday, so they have breakfast with Mike early — really early, because seriously, a hot damn mess. Jake sleeps through it, and Mike carries him down to the salon before he heads over to the theater where his show has started up again.

"I can't believe he threw up on you," Mike say, quietly. There's not many people around, and they're walking side by side. People probably think they're just a regular couple going wherever with their kid. That used to bother her, for one because it isn't even close to the truth, but mostly because they, that collective of people who judge her life every day from every angle — the guy in the packy when she buys beer for her and Mike, the student admin woman from college who told her she had a week to remove her belongings from her dorm, even her own mother — they universally wear that look of disappointment when whatever illusion they have about her is brushed away like so much fog.

"Did you cry? Remember the first day we had him home, and he puked all down your back. You totally cried!" Mike's trying not to laugh too hard, in case he wakes Jake, but Santana still punches his arm and says, "You jackass, I was nineteen and had just had a baby. Pretty sure I wasn't just crying about the vomit."

Mike's face freezes mid-chuckle, which makes Santana think he looks like a cartoon character — like out of Dragon Ball Z or something — and his eyes get that tightness they get sometimes when he looks at her. She's never once blamed him for the way things turned out, but then he's never blamed her either, so it works out pretty even.

"Besides," she says, to distract him, "You totally threw up in the delivery room. I'm pretty sure that makes you way more of a pussy."

They've reached the salon, and she lets them in, Mike going through to the office to put Jake on the couch where he's been napping since he was two.

Mike hangs around for a bit, harassing her about her birthday plans, but he heads out before her first client shows up.

...

There's a library at Harvard with this woman's name on it.

When Santana was there, she never even came close to this sort of person — her grandkids, she supposes. She knew they existed, but it was like knowing the British royal family existed for all its relevance to her life. Now, they sit in her place and let her come at them with scissor, and ask about her son, the polite boy with the hats.

"He's sleeping in the office," she tells Mrs. Howard. "He's had a bit of a bug." She hands the woman back her credit card, and clicks save on her next appointment.

"Oh, the poor dear. He's always so friendly when I come in." Santana hums her reply, never sure what the appropriate response is when people compliment her kid. She knows he's awesome, and she takes full credit for that (Mike's a total nerd and a terrible nerd influence on Jake), but bragging about having taught her kid manners seems like something she should be doing from the doorway of a trailer with coke cans in her hair.

"Well, you tell him I said hello, dear. Perhaps we will see you both at Fenway for opening game." Santana seriously doubts that, but she sends Mrs. Howard off with a smile and a promise to keep an eye out for her.

There's a woman coming in as Mrs. Howard's leaving, and they shuffle around each other with friendly 'excuse me''s. The front of the salon is mostly glass, and the grey sunlight hurts her eyes, but she doesn't look away from Rachel slipping in, already unwinding her scarf; another casualty of the appointment reshuffle.

"Hey," she says, and Rachel's head snaps in her direction. Her hands pause mid action, and her expression is unschooled; she has this startled look, not like Santana gave her a fright, but there's a moment of confusion at the greeting being directed at her.

"Good morning, Santana." Rachel's face shifts into a pleasant smile, and it's creepy to watch it happen.

There's an awkward pause, neither of them with a handle on the script and the sound of hairdryers filling in the background, but they're alone up the front. Rachel pulls off her coat, and whatever, Santana shakes her head and gets on with it.

...

Because she hasn't been listening, she honestly has no idea what Rachel is talking about today, but it seems like she's as uptight about everything being perfect as ever. Whoever the guy is, Santana thinks there is about to be an unemployed conductor — or producer? She's not sure; she might have heard both words — somewhere in Boston soon.

...

Rachel has just stood up from the sink and is rubbing a towel across her head when she sees Jake poking his head out the office door. The salon is his third home — half the office is covered with his toys and things, even though it bugs Stacey — but he's timid when he's tired, and he hangs onto the handle, wrapped around the edge of the door, until he spots her.

She watches him swing the door open, and there's a seven month period in her life closing in around her, and she wants it to stop, but.

Jake's face is creased from the couch, his Knicks hat tilted precariously on his head, and he couldn't give a shit about all the other people around, he just fuzzily weaves around legs until he gets to her.

Santana steps forward, and hoists Jake up onto her hip. "Hey," she says, ignoring the body behind her turning to look. "Good sleep?"

Jake just nods; she pulls his hat off before it smacks her in the face with the brim, and he drops his head onto her shoulder. Her hand curls protectively around his back, and her neck aches from resisting the need to witness the judgment on Rachel's face.

"Can we go to Comics," he asks quietly, "Last week I thought I got a blue Qee, but it was just the shiny from the plastic. Can I try again?"

"Did you go with Dad on Tuesday?" She walks them over to the front desk, doing her best not to look at Rachel looking at her. At them.

"Noooo," Jake shakes his head into the side of her neck.

"Okay, I suppose we can do that at lunch time."

"Yeah," he sits up in her arms, "and if I get the blue one, then I win because Daddy still needs the yellow one, but I got that ages ago." She sits Jake in the bucket stool behind the desk and stands in front of him.

"Alright, one condition. If you don't get the blue one, you can't have a fit about it. If you do, no more for two weeks, okay?"

"Deal," he says, very seriously, and holds out his hand to shake on it like Mike taught him. She claps their hands together, but he makes her shake properly.

"Can I have some juice, please," he asks, tugging his hat out from where it's tucked under her arm. He pulls it on, then runs his finger around the edge, making sure his hair isn't caught up.

"Sure, J-man."

She leaves Jake there, because nothing's actually going to happen, and when she comes back from the kitchen nook with a juice box he's half-heartedly sending rubber bands shooting across the top of the desk. It sucks that he's stuck here when he's still not well, but there's nothing much she can do about it. Rachel's staring, and there's only so much she can do about that.

"Here you go," she hands Jake the juice, then picks him up even though he's really too big for this on a regular basis. She takes him back to the office, and spends far too long watching him play Zelda on his DS.

...

Rachel's looking blankly at the mirror when she returns, standing directly behind her.

Santana meets her eyes in the reflection, because what else is she going to do? Rachel licks at her bottom lip with deliberateness. "You have a son," she asks, and the word — the question — gets caught on her breath.

She didn't know.

Rachel didn't know, and hasn't been acting the way she has, with the tips and the awkwardness, because she— whatever it is, it isn't out of—

"Yeah," she answers after a long moment. "His name's Jake. He just turned five." There's a pause, and then Rachel's face, still utterly blank, fills with a smile that brings the realization that in the past month Santana hasn't once received a genuine smile from her.

She picks up the hairdryer and switches it on. Rachel doesn't try and make any small talk, just sits there and fidgets with her fingers, glancing up every now and then, and her face slipping into a slack sadness whenever she's staring at the middle distance. Whatever that's about, Santana's pretty sure it has nothing to do with her, so she leaves her to her thoughts.

"He's perfect, Santana," Rachel finally says as she's leaving.

Objectively speaking, this is true, but in five years she's never believed anyone has recognized how true that is, how something so— without flaw could have possibly come out of that spring.

In the last half an hour she still hasn't learnt how to take a compliment when it comes to her kid, but the words spill from her lips without resistance. "Thank you."


	4. Chapter 1, Part 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i apologise in advance, you'll know why when you see it. (more on this at the end.) also, as a bonus, there will be a short backstory oneshot explaining certain things posted on my tumblr in a little bit. i'll update with a link when there is one.
> 
> many thanks for the gang of three, as always but especially for this one.

She feels silly, caring so much.

But it's _twenty-five_ , and it's a number that goes into one-hundred evenly, and it's two less than twenty-seven, so maybe after that she'll feel relief, but today Santana feels accomplished.

She's lying on her back, watching the sunlight leak slowly across the ceiling and drifting in and out of full wakefulness when sounds from the hallway cut through her consciousness. She's reaching to throw back the covers when Mike's head pokes around the open doorway.

"Hi," he says, overly cheerful and clearly up to no good. He doesn't even live here, so... "Everything's fine. Just... stay there, okay." He disappears. "Oh, and happy birthday," he calls out. "Stay in bed!"

Okay, then.

She grabs the remote from the nightstand, switches on _NPH and Kelly_ , and folds her arms behind her head. It's only a couple of minutes before she can hear Jake's laughter from where he's hiding just outside the door, and then he and Mike appear in the doorway, Mike snapping his fingers to keep time, while they sing 'Happy Birthday' like they're in some kind of barber shop duet. Jake steps back and forth with Mike, not used to dancing and singing at the same time, but he doesn't let it get to him when he steps forward twice at one point.

When they're done, she applauds as they both bow, and then Jake scrambles up onto the bed while Mike retrieves something from outside the door.

"Happy birthday, Mommy," Jake pretty much shouts at her face.

...

(On her twentieth birthday, Mike bought her a necklace with a piece of metal with a single stone threaded onto it hanging from the chain, and a card signed from Jake. "It's slate," he'd said. "Look how clean it is."

Every year he and Jake pick out another stone to add to it. When Jake was barely one, Mike had let him point and that was the winner, and Mike cringed as he handed over a piece of malachite that was the brightest thing there. After that, Santana suspects he'd pre-selected a few for Jake to choose from.)

...

Birthdays are awesome, she's decided. Karen at the cafe gives her a cupcake with a single candle in it, which until it happens seemed like the sort of thing she would hate. The last hour of work is spent with more cake, this time with the addition of some seriously decent wine Mike shows up carrying, because why not get things started then.

Who cares that they both have work the next day, she's only going to turn twenty-five once.

She's at least a whole bottle in, spinning in one of the client seats, when she calls Jake at his friend Matthew's house to say good night, and then they — her and Mike and some people from work and  from Mike's company; alright, her _friends_ — head out for some food before they hit the dance floor.

For the record, African is maybe her new favorite food. She can even overlook the part where they ate with their hands.

...

She's mildly embarrassed that so many people she knows have shown up, but that's probably more Mike's doing than anything, because everyone loves a Chang. (It's been years now, but sometimes, only sometimes, she still feels like the girl who crashed that Halloween party, the party Mike was at and delighted to run into her.) But whatever, the club is banging, she's got very high heels and sluttier hair and it's her birthday, dammit, she's gonna get laid.

(She might have yelled this as they piled into a cab, Mike high fiving her with an amused shake of his head.)

...

Much later, she'd be grateful to be able to put one foot in front of another once, let alone twice, but whatever, the bar is holding her up and she can still move her hips to the beat. She's calling it success.

Mike's skinny black tie is around his forehead, and he's busting out The Sprinkler. It's ridiculous, when Santana considers that the guy gets paid to dance in some fancy pants ballet company, and yet he's out there degrading himself in this way just to make her laugh. Either that or it's the five shots of tequila. It could go either way.

She's just finished the fruity blue whatever the bar tender made her, because any more shots and she was probably going to fall off her shoes, and she's leaning over to steal a cherry from behind the bar when she feels warm hands curl around her hips. She's bent over the bar, heels perched on the foot rail and ass in the air, so when she goes to pull away she nearly goes face first into a tray of clean glasses.

"Hey, calm down," Lady McGropey says, "Calm down and guess who?"

She's could slap Mike. (She could _kiss_ Mike.)

"Who could it possibly be," she gasps, straightening up and rolling her eyes at herself. "It couldn't possibly be someone who disappeared to the wilds of Russia for months and months," she inflects a pout into her voice, "leaving the poor, lonely lesbians of the greater Boston area with nothing but their vibrators to keep themselves warm at night."

The voice at her ear chuckles softly, and Santana turns around.

"My goodness, who is this stranger before my eyes," she presses a hand to her chest and bats her lashes, but she's being ridiculous (maybe those five shots she had to match Mike's are to blame) and she cracks up, throwing her arms around Toni's neck and pulling her into a hug.

"Happy birthday," Toni says, lips hovering at her ear, and the feel of her breath makes Santana shiver.

"I can't believe Mike didn't tell me you were back," she says when she pulls back. "I'm going to shave his head while he's sleeping."

"Don't do that, I asked him not to tell. And," Toni's smile quirks, and she slips her hands back over Santana's hips, "since I come bearing nothing but myself," she pulls Santana closer, "I hope you'll accept a mere token of my affection, on this very," she leans in, cheek brushing against Santana's, "special occasion." Her lips press against the skin under Santana's ear, skimming along her jaw and finally capturing her mouth.

It's slow and hard and oh, happy birthday to her. Clearly she's psychic, because yes, she is going to get laid.

...

It's her birthday and she can leave at 2am if she wants to.

...

It's only the pointed staring from the cab driver that keeps her from orgasms before they get somewhere with a bed.

The cab takes them to Toni's place, even though she has roommates and Santana's apartment is empty. 

Toni's been to her place before. She's met Jake a bunch of times — she taught him how to cartwheel when he was three. But they don't have sex at her place. It's obviously not about hiding the fact that they sleep together sometimes (Mike had high fived her as they left the bar. And seriously, her babydaddy is so dead for not warning her. She could have been wearing spanx or something!) it's just never been about more than a good source of orgasms from someone she knows isn't going to ask for more or turn into a psycho.

Plus the girl is like Stretchella Armstrong levels of flexible. There's a reason beyond "orgasms" that they've been doing this for years whenever Toni's in town. They're _good_ orgasms.

...

Santana's pretty sure someone needs to call 911, because ow. She can't even tell if it's hangover ow or morning after a night of awesome sex ow, it's just all one big ow.

She hobbles into the shower and just leans against the wall letting her skin get its rehydration on for a while.

Being twenty-five _sucks_.

...

Toni's already awake when she stumbles into the stupidly bright living area. Girl is looking incredibly tanned for someone who was in Russia, but Santana doesn't actually know if that's the only place she was dancing. That's not the kind of relationship they have.

There's coffee waiting for her though, because they might not be in anything resembling a relationship but they are friends of a kind, and anyone who knows Santana for more than a day knows there must always be coffee, or else there's just Snix.

...

She's hiding in the office when Stacey sticks her head through the door. "You're 3 o'clock is here." Bitch is being far too loud for Santana's liking. "Oh, it's that woman. The one you don't like."

"Which one?" There are so many people this could be.

"The one that was singing with the Boston Pops the other week. Rachel something. You know her."

"What?" What? Only about fifty percent of anything is making sense right now. "Oh, right."

Fuck, why now? Her head is killing her, and she has to actually cut Rachel's hair this week, because it's been a month since she fixed that disaster with Rachel's hair. She did some teenage hipster's blowout this morning, and Santana's pretty sure the girl left the salon in love with her thanks to her badass attitude of not talking and refusing to take her sunglasses off. Maybe she can do that now, too.

Rachel's sitting in the chair Santana had been spinning around in last night, doing something with her phone, and she doesn't look up when Santana steps up behind her. She watches for a moment, because why not, and then coughs loudly, just to make Rachel jump.

Rachel totally jumps. "Oh, excuse me. Good afternoon, Santana." Shit, she's perky. Santana hates perky, but she especially hates _this_ perky. And she very especially hates this perky when she's hung over.

"Sup, Gidget. Let's do this thing."

...

"Oh, I almost forgot." She's brushing little bits of hair off Rachel's neck when she twists around. "I have something, hold on," Rachel bends down to dig around in her giant purse and Santana spends a second being concerned that she might fall in and disappear. Rachel stands, taking a moment to smooth down her skirt — it's almost knee-length but tight from waist to thigh, and Santana wonders who finally taught her to dress.

"Here," she holds a box, gift wrapped in gold paper, out towards Santana.

"You got me a present?" She stares at the overhead lights reflecting in the shiny paper. How does Rachel even remember it's her birthday?

"It's for Jake. You said he just turned five?" Rachel's eyes blink up at her before shifting away, obscured by her lashes. "It's just something to— If things had been different— What I mean is, five years is a lot of birthdays."

"Cinco, in fact. That's five, FYI." A part of her wants to refuse, because what the hell? It's _her_ birthday.

"Santana, please," Rachel forces out, "I know this doesn't actually make up for anything but please accept this in the spirit in which it is intended, which is me wanting to start to make amends."

Okay, she's really confused, and Santana doesn't think that's entirely a result of the tequila still taking up residence in her blood stream. Rachel may have run, too, but Santana ran first. There's no one to blame, if it's even something worthy of blame, for Jake's lack of aunts and uncles except her. No one but her.

She holds out her hands, and Rachel sets the gift in them. It's heavy, and whatever's inside rattles a tiny bit, but she tucks it under her arm and scratches at her nose. "I'll make sure he gets it." She's not a complete asshole, and it's for Jake. Rachel can atone for whatever she likes if this is how she wants to do it. "Thanks."

"Thank you," Rachel says quietly, gathering her things.

Though for what she's being thanked, Santana has no idea.

...

She's totally awake when Mike lets himself and Jake into the apartment later that day. Absolutely awake. Not at all sleeping on the couch at five-thirty in the afternoon.

"Wake up," Mike says loudly, right in her ear, and then the asshole has the bad manners not to let her smack him in the face as he ducks out of her reach and goes into the kitchen. "If I have to be awake and in this much pain, so do you."

"Screw you," she groans into the throw pillow she's pulled over her head.

"No thanks, I like it when girls enjoy it," Mike calls out. "But if you're nice, you can have this burger."

Santana's stomach growls so loudly it hurts, and she's off the couch and into the kitchen, where Mike is pulling food from a paper bag. She grabs a handful of fries and pulls herself onto the kitchen bench.

"Jake," Mike yells, and she tosses a fry at his face.

"Please, shut the fuck up."

"Language," Mike says, smacking at her leg before handing her a burger.

"Yeah, language, Mommy," Jake giggles as he comes running into the kitchen. "Can I sit up there, too?"

"No," Santana and Mike reply in unison.

"Why not?"

"Because I'm a grown up, and you're not."

"Santana," Mike sighs. "Because if you fall, you'll hurt yourself. If your mom falls, she'll land on her head, and that's thick enough to protect her brain." Santana throws another fry at Mike, but Jake accepts that and climbs into a chair at the table, taking off his Hornets cap and hanging it on the back of the chair.

It's not until they're done eating and Mike's gone home that she remembers the gift from Rachel.

"Hey," she nudges Jake with her foot, and he makes a noise of annoyance from the other end of the couch. She pokes him again. "There's a present for you in my bedroom."

Jake hits pause on his DS and scrambles up onto his knees to face her. "What is it?"

"I dunno, I don't have x-ray vision. Go get it off my bed." He does, and when he comes back he almost trips on the corner of the rug in his rush. He sits the box on Santana's legs, and picks at the edge of the wrapping.

"Who's it from," he asks.

"A friend of mine," is the answer she settles on, not because it's true but anything else is just confusing.

"Do I know them," he says, and it's weird to realize that there is no one in her life that isn't also in his life.

"Nope," she shakes her head. "But that's okay. Open it." She's curious herself to see what Rachel could possibly have thought was an appropriate gift for the son of a high school acquaintance that she knows nothing about.

Jake pulls at the wrapping, tearing through the shiny gold paper printed with white, hand-drawn stars. It gives way to a shrink-wrapped box, one that Santana knows from spending almost every Saturday lunch break for the last year and a half in Newbury Comics contains—

"Qees!" Jake shrieks, and stars pulling at the plastic. "Mommy, look! They're the new ones!" He's having trouble getting the plastic open, and Santana tears through it before he starts hyperventilating in his excitement.

Jake pulls the box down onto the floor and rips open the top to reveal rows of smaller boxes, each containing a tiny rubber figurine. "Can I open all of them," he asks, eyes bugging out and his fingers wriggling over the edge of a box.

"Go ahead, J-man." She watches Jake go through the entire case, opening each box carefully, tiny hands working carefully not to damage the box, and then ripping through the sealed bag inside. He sets each toy in a row on the edge of the coffee table, tongue between his lips as he concentrates on lining them up perfectly, grouping the couple of duplicates together.

Rachel's… everything, her entire existence, confused Santana in high school. Frustrated and annoyed and on very rare occasions didn't entirely repulse her, yes; but mostly Rachel's unrelenting Weeble-ness baffled the shit out of her, because just _why?_ Nothing in Santana's twenty-five years on this planet has given her a reason to presume goodness in anything — and when you've stood in the middle of the street with a two year old kicking and screaming because he doesn't want to go to Gymboree that day, you stop seeing even your own loin fruit as angelic —  but Rachel back then saw sunshine and rainbows everywhere. The girl wanted to be friends with Quinn Fabray for fuck sake, so maybe the pleasure is in the pain.

She'd never been the focus of much of Rachel's crazy outside of her general obsession with glee club, so she has nothing to measure this against. Rachel was obviously being a nosey creep — the joke there writes itself — that day at the salon, but this was… thoughtful, in a way few people bother to be. And expensive, which makes Santana's skin itch with annoyance.

Her head still hurts too much to think about it now, but she's going to have to eventually, if only to work out some choice ways to tell Rachel to calm her tits.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay, so i'm sorry. i hate OCs as much as anyone, but i think you can see why this was necessary here. five years is a long time, guys. would you want santana to be lonely for five years?


	5. Chapter 1, Part 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoops, that was a much longer break than I wanted. Thanks for sticking around.

PTA moms are basically the cheerleaders of the adult world.

Santana knows this because, duh, she was a cheerleader in high school, and she knows what a pack of bitches she and Quinn and whoever else they roped into their scheming were. What she didn't know at the time was that this was training for life as an adult, because PTA moms?

Total cunts.

The hierarchy totally confused her in the beginning, because some of these bitches are old and ugly. It wasn't until she worked out that, unlike cheerleading, there is only one requirement to rise through the ranks here: total insanity. Sure, it's dressed up as dedication to their kids' learning environment or whatever, but mostly it's just mild alcoholism and control issues and nothing else to do with their lives.

She fully admits she never stood a chance at being anything within that pack. She just doesn't have that drive to make other people miserable for her own benefit anymore.

Which is why she finds herself sitting in the back of one of the classrooms at Jake's school, entertaining herself by working out how much time these women have spent baking cupcakes as a percentage of their total existence. The number is hilarious.

(She may also be hiding back there because there's this divorced dad who has been hitting on her every month since Jake started school, and he was lurking up the front when she slipped in.)

A couple of the moms are clients — and when she started referring to grown adults as moms and dads she does not know but she wishes it had never happened — and that's all part of how Jake goes to such a good school, but it was just another nail in any potential PTA career she may have had, had she even wanted one.

(This could never have been her life, even in some parallel universe where she'd married an NFL player but hadn't managed to get a reality tv show, and she's always known it. As head Cheerio, she'd dealt with the PTA committee a couple times, and she's pretty sure Lima Elementary would by now be under the ruling fist of Quinn Fabray.

That idiot Motta girl springs to mind as perfect PTA material, and of course Quinn would rope Br—)

This is how she ends up on sunscreen duty when chaperoning field trips.

The meeting's winding up, and she punches a note about stupid kids with peanut allergies into her phone's diary because next week there's some World Food Day that seems like a disaster waiting to happen, but maybe she can bribe Mike into making dim sum for Jake to bring. She sucks at making empanadas.

Jake's at the gym down the street, and she avoids the group of people crowded around the table of coffee and cakes so she can get over there before his taekwondo class is over. The kids are just starting the bow-out ceremony so she hangs by the door until they're done.

(When Jake had asked if he could take taekwondo, she'd jokingly suggested his dad could teach him some moves. Mike had called her a racist, because why would he automatically know any martial arts, and also taekwondo is _Korean_. Besides, Jake had wanted to do it with his friends from school.

It was the first time they'd ever sat Jake down and explained that, because of the way he looked, people might think certain things about him for no good reason. Maybe one day she'd even tell him about Lima Heights Adjacent.)

"Did you see me," Jake asks as he runs over once they're dismissed. "Did you see me win?"

Crap, she didn't think he'd get his turn this week.

"I didn't, J-man, I'm sorry. Next week I'll be here all class, though." He looks really bummed, which she hates, so even though it's seven o'clock, "You want to stop for some hot chocolate on the way home?"

"Yeah," Jake cheers, and shoves his protective gear into Santana's arms before bolting away to get his bag and coat from the locker rooms.

Even five year olds think they look weird in long johns — at least her five year old does, refusing to let anyone see him change into them — so Jake comes back having changed into tracksuit pants, the snaps down the side of the leg flapping open as he runs, showing the flash of white underneath. Santana makes him sit on the bench and hold each leg up so she can fix what his little fingers can't, and then wraps his scarf around his neck and tucks the ends into his coat before they head out to walk the four blocks home.

They live around the block from the salon, but much more importantly the best coffee in Boston, and Jake spends the entire walk there recounting each move he made in his epic battle this evening. She's fairly certain she caught the words "fly kick" in there, so Jake's pretty much over the fact that she wasn't there because now it can be the fight he had in his head rather than what she knows was probably the cutest bout ever.

It's dark out, but Newbury Street is still lit up by storefronts and the occasional string of lights wound around wrought iron fences. Jake's a few steps in front of her, performing what she is _sure_ is a very accurate re-enactment of how he made the final score to win, as they come up to the open gate of the cafe, and she's so busy watching Jake attempt to walk backwards and swing his leg up that she doesn't see him back right into—

"Hey, buddy, watch where you're going, okay?"

"Rachel?" Of course it's Rachel, no one else could sound that kind while telling a kid off. "What are you doing here?"

It's a stupid question, but the sight of Rachel standing there with her hands resting on Jake's shoulders is distracting her from the basic logic behind what someone might be doing coming out of a cafe.

"Sorry," Jake says, pulling away and backing up to Santana's legs. "'m sorry," he looks up at her, and she curls her palm around his arm but she's still looking at Rachel.

"It's okay," it comes out on autopilot. Even though it's been weeks since she started seeing Rachel, she's never seen her outside the salon.

"You must be Jake," Rachel bends down a little, "It's nice to finally meet you."

Jake's head swivels up to look at Santana from under his Brooklyn Nets cap, blinking at her for some indication that it's okay to talk to this total stranger.

"It's okay," she repeats. "Jake, this is the lady that got you all those Qees. You remember?"

Jake's head whips back around to Rachel, "She did?"

She tears her eyes away from where Rachel is still at Jake's eye level, and watches him breathe out an awed puff of air.

"Say thank you for your present," she prompts, pressing him forward a step.

"Thank you for my present," he parrots, but he sounds like he means it, so that's okay. Rachel grins at him, looking genuinely pleased that he liked it.

"You're very welcome," she says.

"What's your name," Jake asks, and he shuffles forward a little further.

"My name's Rachel," she replies, crouching down so she's fully eye level with him.

"Nice to meet you, Rachel," Jake says, and Santana could die when he sticks out his arm to shake hands. How did she end up raising such a dork?

(Jake has more natural swagger than she has in her pinky, but he also has Mike's manners.)

But Rachel is charmed, and she meets his gloved hand with her own, and Jake jerks his hand up and down a little too enthusiastically.

"Did you like the Qees," Rachel asks, and then Jake is off explaining that he did, and that he got three doubles and one triple but he still got the whole set, and he gave the doubles to his dad who will never catch up now, because he already got the last one in the last set and now he's a whole set ahead and he really liked that one green one with the pointy ears and and and.

Santana can see Rachel has absolutely no idea what any of this means, but she nods along and asks vaguely on point questions. She never once looks to Santana to be rescued, just rests her knee on the pavement when it looks like Jake isn't going to shut up any time soon, which is when Santana notices Rachel's coffee sitting on the ground by her purse.

Santana looks at her watch, and shit, they've probably been standing out there for at least five minutes now.

"Hey," she interrupts, and Jake frowns up at her, while Rachel just squints beside him. "Rachel's coffee's getting cold, and you've got school tomorrow."

Rachel looks down at the forgotten cup. "Oh. It's tea, actually. And I apologize for holding you up."

It's her fault for letting Jake go on, and that's the only reason she says, "I'll get you another one," and then heads inside with a "Come on, Jake," tossed over her shoulder.

It's only five feet to the register, so it's okay when he doesn't follow, instead waiting for Rachel to stand so he can continue to harass her. "Are you a dancer or a hair doer?"

What is her life where these are basically the only people Jake seems to know? And it's not even true, but to Jake it probably seems that way. Rachel just laughs, and replies, "Well, I'm neither. But I'm a performer, so sometimes I have to dance just a little bit."

"What do you perform," Jake asks as they fall in behind Santana, and her kid is making her feel like the rudest asshole on the planet right now because she doesn't know the answer to any of this stuff.

"All kinds of things. Musicals, mostly. You know what they are, right," she asks, and Jake nods because he and Mike spend a lot of time watching old Fred Astaire movies and copying the dances. "Right now, though, I'm just singing."

"What do you sing, are you on iTunes?"

"I'm not on iTunes," Rachel laughs. "And the things I sing— okay, so you know what musicals are, have you seen any musicals on stage?"

"Yeah," Jake says. "We saw The Lion King."

"Okay, well I don't sing any songs from that. But I do sing songs from other shows like that. So that's what I sing, mostly."

Oh, that rings a hung over bell.

"You did a thing with the Boston Pops, right?" Santana asks, and half turns to collect the three cups that were just set in front of her.

"That's right," and then Rachel shrugs. "That was just a one off, though. I have a weekly show at The Paramount for the next little while."

"Oh," Santana replies, because seriously, that's not nothing, but she has no idea what else Rachel's done with her life. She may have won a Tony for all Santana knows, so 'congratulations on your show' is just… "That's awesome," is how she fills in the pause that's quickly building up to awkward.

"Thank you," Rachel says, and takes the cup marked with a 'T' from Santana's hands. "And thank you for this. You really didn't have to."

"Yeah, well," Santana shrugs, "It's his fault your tea got cold, so it's my fault. No big deal."

"It was no one's fault. Nonetheless, thank you." Rachel takes a sip of her tea, and blinks at the taste. "How did you actually know what to order?"

Santana shrugs again, and then forces her shoulders to stop it. "I just told Jeremy to make whatever you'd just ordered again."

"Very clever," Rachel smiles. "Anyway… It was nice running into you, Santana. And you, too, Jake," she nods down at him. "Maybe we'll see each other again some time."

"Like where," Jake asks, and Rachel actually giggles a little. Santana can't blame her, the kid is really turning on the charm tonight for whatever reason.

"I don't know, maybe your mom's salon again."

"Okay," Jake says, and then sticks up his hand, "Bye, Rachel."

"Bye," she directs at Jake, and then takes a step back. "Have a good evening, Santana."

"Later," Santana says, and half raises her hand in a wave.

"Bye, Rachel," Jake calls out again, and Rachel waves back at him before disappearing through the door.

She hands Jake his hot chocolate, then spends a minute mixing sugar into her coffee before they head out, and they're not two steps down the street when Jake starts asking about Rachel.

"Do you think she knows songs from Wizard of Oz," he asks, and she gets this weird mental image of Jake singing Somewhere Over the Rainbow _with_ Rachel, because it was the first real song he learned all the words to, and Rachel definitely knows that.

(When Jake was very young she would leave AMC running in the background, because classics weren't full of loud music or explosions but silence was more upsetting to both of them.

Midnight was always the worst for getting him to sleep, and old musicals were always running at that time. It almost always worked, but there were a few movies that would calm him completely but he'd lie in her arms fully alert for as long as he could manage before he would let his little eyes close.

The Wizard of Oz was one of those movies.)

"I don't know," she answers, which ends up being the only three words she repeats the entire walk home.

…

There must have been sugar hidden in his bagel or something because Jake's spent all morning tearing around the salon like his hair's on fire. 

She finally got him to stay in the office by giving him a ball of yarn and letting him play Spider Man, which means the entire room is likely a disaster, but she hasn't heard a peep from him until the door opens and he tosses the now much smaller ball of yarn down the hallway. The yarn disappears through the doorway to some point up high, and an action figure looped around it with a twist tie comes sliding down the yarn and lands on the ground where the ball is sitting.

He sticks his head through the doorway, and she can see him look both ways yet still miss her looking right at him. He shuffles across the floor, hunched down low, and when he gets to the ball of yarn she yells out, "I can see you!"

Jake drops to the floor like that will help him, and she cracks up, but she still goes over there. "What are you doing out here?"

"Nothing," he answers, and he rolls over so he's covering the yarn, but the action figure — Iron Man, she thinks, but maybe The Flash — digs into his stomach and he wriggles around until he can get it out from under himself.

"Ahuh. Stand up, please." He does, and she's about to send him back into the office when something catches his attention, and he bolts up the front to where Rachel is standing at the front desk.

"Hi, Rachel," he calls out, skidding to a stop in front of her.

"Hello, Jake," she crouches down to his eye level. "Didn't I tell you we would see each other again?"

"You did. And," he says dramatically, "you were right, it was at mom's salon." His eyes are huge as he looks at her, like he suspects she's magic or something.

"I just had a funny feeling I'd see you here," she says, straightening up to greet Santana.

Jake follows them over to Santana's station and watches as Rachel sets her things down, keeping out of the way but definitely hovering. She's wrapping a towel around her neck, but she looks down at Jake where he's standing by an equipment stand — he knows he's not supposed to come out and bug clients unless they speak to him first (there was an awkward moment one time where an old lady thought he was being rude for not answering, and it had upset him a lot so they had set some more flexible rules).

"What grade are you in at school," she asks, and that's enough for him to duck around the stand and follow them over to the wash basins.

"Kindy," he says. "What grade are you in?"

Santana loses it — she couldn't dream of that much comedic timing, even now — and Rachel's eyes snap up to glare at her, and whoa. Scary. But it's only for a second, and then she refocuses on Jake.

"I'm not in school anymore. Actually," she pauses, eyes flickering only for a second, "I went to school with your mom."

Oh, hold up, why did she have to—

"Really," Jake breathes, and he steps closer as Rachel settles into the chair, his hand resting on the arm of it. "You really did?"

"Sure did. We were in some of the same classes together, and we did—"

"But that was a long time ago, right," Santana cuts in.

"Yeah," Jake says to Santana, "because you're old, and school is for when you're a kid."

He may be a 1940's gentleman with his manners sometimes, but socially acceptable comments are still beyond Jake. Besides, she can't fault his logic there, some days she can't even remember what it was like to be a teenager, never mind _five_ , it feels so long ago.

"I don't know," Rachel says quietly. "It doesn't feel like a long time ago. Not always."

The air becomes stupidly tense, and she nearly knocks a bottle of conditioner over trying to find something to do, but kids are basically deaf to this sort of thing and Jake carries on talking and the subject is forgotten.

Jake's explaining the finer points of Super Mario Bros. by the time she's done with Rachel's hair. Even as she was drying Rachel's hair, Jake would just pause until she switched the blow drier off to pick up where he'd left off.

Rachel was friends with Puck and dated Finn — hell, she'd married the dude — so she's pretty sure Rachel's had some experience with some variety of Super Mario, and that's confirmed when she tells Jake she always thought Princess Peach loved Luigi more than Mario.

Santana's pretty sure Jake's about ask Rachel to marry him at this point.

"Thanks for keeping me company," she says as they head over to the front desk, and Jake leaps off the rolling seat he'd pulled over after a while to follow them.

"You're welcome," Jake replies, and then he actually scuffs the toe of his Jordans on the ground — something he never does, because that's how shoes get marks — for a moment and then he puffs up his chest and says, "Come back soon."

He doesn't give Rachel a chance to reply before he dashes back to the office, looking over his shoulder repeatedly as he goes.

"Sorry, he's such a dork, I don't know what's—"

"Don't worry about it," Rachel interrupts. "He's adorable. Tell him I had a lovely time talking to him today."

The weird thing is Santana actually believes her.


	6. Chapter 1, Part 5

They've just finished having breakfast with Mike and are walking down the block when Rachel appears out of nowhere at her side. She has no idea how Rachel manages to be so stealth in the insanely high heels she's wearing, and Santana side-eyes the shoes because, what? It's not even 10am.

"Good morning, Santana," she says, like it's not grey and windy and — did she mention? — not even 10am. Santana's still working on her second cup of coffee, so everyone will just have to forgive her for a while longer. Not that Rachel's actually paying any attention to her, instead leaning around her to say, "Hi, Jake."

"Rachel, are you coming to the salon now," he asks, dropping Santana's hand and moving to stand between her and Rachel. Rachel's wearing this long, blue scarf wrapped around her neck a million times, and it looks incredibly warm.

"Yep. Looks like you'll be my salon buddy again. Is that okay?"

"Awesome," Jake replies, and then dashes ahead to open the door, like he's on some kind of date.

"How are you," Rachel asks. It takes Santana a moment to realize Rachel's talking to her because it doesn't just sound like a pleasantry. Rachel's leaning in towards her, and her tone's all interested. Rachel hasn't really asked her about _anything_ , since that first appointment, so she's kind of thrown.

"Oh. Good. You know, busy." Come on, coffee, she thinks, do better than that. "You?" is what she finally settles on. Apparently she can't do better than that.

"Very well, thank you." Rachel doesn't seem to think she can do any better than that either, based on the blinked pause she gives Santana before heading further down the street.

(She's still not sure she even wants to do better than that. This — whatever this is — is only working because they're still behaving like strangers most of the time. Or she thought they were.)

They reach the salon, and Jake's standing there with the door open and Stacey yelling at him to close it before he lets all the cold in.

She goes to dump their things and get a towel, and by the time she comes back Jake is sitting on the bench under the mirror in front of Rachel, a loop of string wound around his fingers.

"Look, mommy," Jake says, and then twists his wrists around and holds the string up to his nose. "Meow." His eyebrows disappear under his cap, and she thinks he's trying to make his ears move.

"Where'd you learn that," she asks, "it's very clever." He bursts into a fit of giggles, rocking back against the glass behind him.

(Damn his ridiculously cute face, he's going to have so many girls chasing after him when he's older, and probably some guys, too, based on how skinny he already likes his jeans.)

"Rachel showed me how."

"Just now?"

"Is that okay," Rachel asks, twisting around in her seat to look up Santana. "I know a couple of others that I was going to show him. But only if—"

"It's fine," she waves Rachel off. 

She gets Rachel's hesitance, she thinks. There's no way she'd just start playing with some kid whose parents she barely knows, as if Rachel's face back on the street hadn't reminded her that they just _don't_ know each other anymore. Even if Rachel is Jake's new best friend.

"Can we do this first, though?" She holds the towel up, waving it back and forth a bit.

Jake follows them over and, she won't lie, Jake talking Rachel's ear off is saving her from the trouble, so she doesn't tell him to stop when he steps up on the footrest and leans against Rachel's knees so he can hear what Rachel's saying to him.

Jake's hanging Aquaman off a string parachute by the time she's done with Rachel.

She puts Rachel in the computer for next week, and after they've made some more completely small talk and she's paid, Santana heads back into the office where Jake disappeared after Rachel had said goodbye to him.

He's lying on the couch, legs kicked over the arm with his Concord 11s swinging back and and forth, a ripped plastic packet on his stomach and a box tossed on the floor.

"Look what Rachel got me," he says excitedly, and holds up a white vinyl figure. "I get to paint it how I want it." He's practically vibrating with excitement.

She doesn't know how to be mad at someone for liking her kid, but she feels itchier about this than the tips Rachel finally stopped including after Santana had stopped processing the full amount on her credit slip.

…

It's been quiet in the bathroom for a minute when he calls out again.

"Mommy!"

It's his "I have a question" voice, not his "I'm hurt and need your help!" voice, so she's not going to feel bad about ignoring it the first time. She folding socks and trying watch this thing on the History channel about Mary Wollstonecraft — what a badass — and she knows this game; Jake sits in the bathtub and thinks about things, and then she has to answer the fifty million questions he has about whatever it was he was thinking about.

"What!" she calls out, but all she gets in return is, "Moooooooooooom."

It's been a long day, she just wants to sit on her ass and watch tv. Why she thought now was a good time to do that, she'll never know. Motherhood has made her stupid.

"What," she asks again when she reaches the bathroom, a stack of clothes to go away in Jake's wardrobe tucked under her arm.

"On Saturday," Jake begins, and he's got a toy Snoopy in his hand that he's walking along the edge of the bathtub.

"Yeah," she prompts, because he's looking at where he's making the Snoopy jump from the ledge onto the bubbles sitting on the water.

"At the salon," he says, and then hops the Snoopy up onto the other side of the tub. He says something that she can't make out because he's mumbling at the wall now. Whatever he's asking, he's actually shy about, which is just—

"I can't hear you, Jake."

"On Saturday," he starts again a little louder, "will Rachel be at the salon?" He's not even looking at her.

Crap.

So, she's read a ton of parenting books. It's not like she has anyone to ask about things, though she supposes Mike's mom would probably shit a rainbow if she asked. But that's just not ever going to happen, so. Lots of parenting books. And she gets that kids at this age become attached to people that they think are awesome, but god, why _Rachel_?

He's sitting there all serious-faced, and she won't laugh at him, and she closes her eyes to stop them from rolling — something Jake's started to mirror and it's decidedly not cute — and then sets the clothes on the vanity and kneels down by the bathtub.

"I don't know, J-man," she says. She knows Rachel's on the books, but that doesn't matter. "Why?"

He flicks some water at the side of the tub. "I dunno," he shrugs. "She's nice." Santana doesn't really have anything to say to that, so she just nods, and eventually Jake picks up the toy Woodstock floating in the water so Snoopy has someone to fight.

…

Everything has gone wrong all day, so she's still huffing bleach fumes when Rachel shows up for her appointment wearing, of all things, a wool cape and the world's tiniest skirt. Apparently some things don't actually change. It's late in the afternoon and fairly calm, but she's running half an hour behind and it's driving her fucking crazy.

She nods at Rachel standing by the front desk, and there's a hairdryer that cuts out and leaves the salon quiet, so she calls out, "Got a good book?"

"I do, actually," Rachel smiles. "No need to hurry, I haven't got anywhere to be."

"Cool. Just have a seat." The woman sitting in front of her fidgets, and she resumes folding foil around her hair. "Hey, you want a coffee," she directs at Rachel.

"You're busy, don't worry about it."

"Wasn't gonna get it myself," Santana says, then turns to where Julia is folding towels near the back. "Go get Rachel some coffee."

Julia hasn't even put down the towel in her hand when Jake appears in the office doorway, eyes darting around until he sees Rachel up the front.

"Hi, Rachel," he yells, leaning on the wall near the office door. He's not supposed to be out here, and Santana thinks that up until now he probably didn't want to be, with her stomping around in a shitty mood.

"Go back to the office," she snaps before she can stop herself. "Don't bug clients, you know that."

Jake's frowning at her, that cranky face he gets when he can't decide if he's upset or angry — a face reserved almost exclusively for her — and she's immediately sorry because he isn't bugging a client, he's saying hello to, god, a friend.

"Santana, it's okay. He's not bothering me," Rachel's stood and moved closer, at least enough that she doesn't have to talk around people but not exactly near her. "Hi, Jake."

Jake's just standing there, one hand on the corner of the wall and the other holding the pocket on his pants, and this is the kind of thing nature does to people so they don't just eat their own children, because she feels like an utter bitch.

"Hey, come here," she says quietly, and drops the brush she's holding into the container of bleach. Jake comes over, feet dragging and his lip between his teeth. She drops down onto her knees.

"I'm sorry I said that," she says, and grabs Jake's hand to get his attention. "You weren't bugging anyone." He's still holding his pocket and she pulls his hand away, says, "come here," and pulls him into a hug.

He flops his arms around her neck, and she knows she has to break them out of this bubble of tension, and when he pulls away she presses noisy kisses over his forehead until he's squirming away and squealing through laughter into her ear. She's going to end up deaf, but.

Totally worth it.

Rachel's still standing there, awkwardly watching them on the ground with Jake flung across her lap. She refuses to feel uncomfortable about being a good parent, and she meets Rachel's eyes, daring her to pass judgement. But there's none there, just a soft look in her eyes, and _that's_ way less easier to be comfortable about.

Jake shoves himself off her, smushing her boob in the process, and she spins him around and nudges him towards Rachel. "Go say hi," she says, and hauls herself to her feet as Jake drags Rachel over to the chairs.

By the time they're done, Jake's on the bench in front of Rachel explaining why The Lion King is dumb, all without somehow mentioning that certain parts of it make him hide under the coffee table and cry.

Rachel seems to get that he has some very strong feelings about the terribleness of a Disney movie, and nods along very seriously, before mentioning that she's not a big fan of Beauty and the Beast.

"See you next week," Rachel says as she's saying goodbye, and tugs on Jake's cap.

…

Jake paints the blank Qee bright green, and then knocks the bottle of blue paint over and it gets all over the figure's feet.

She's pretty sure he's about to have a fit — she would — but he looks at it for a moment and then pours the red paint over the newspaper-covered table and dips the Qee's ears in the puddle.

In the end it looks hideous, but he takes it to school for show and tell, and then when they're having dinner at Mike's the next night he insists on taking it to show him, too.

"Where'd you find that," Mike asks as they're drying the dishes.

She hasn't mentioned Rachel since a few weeks ago in the bar, and now she thinks she maybe should have. It just didn't seem like a big deal, but now she's bringing their kid presents, and maybe it's not quite a small deal anymore.

"Rachel gave it to him."

"Rachel who," Mike asks, "wait. Rachel Berry? You saw her again?" He turns to look at her.

"Yeah," she shrugs. "She comes in every week. She started coming on Saturdays, so she met Jake."

"She gave him all those Qees? Wait, are you… I don't know, okay with that?"

(Mike's the one who goes back to Lima, not her, but people don't visit them. She knows it's because he warned them off, because she absolutely did not want to see those people. Does not want to see those people. Whatever.)

"It's, you know. It's not my favorite, but it's fine." She tosses the dish towel on the bench and then pulls herself up, feet thumbing on the cupboard. "She's different, now"

"What's she like," Mike asks, pulling himself up next to her. "I haven't seen her in years."

"I dunno, just— different. She's nice to Jake, which was not what I'd have expected."

"Huh," Mike says. "She still dress like a toddler?"

…

It's finally, finally, finally warm enough that Jake can play in the back courtyard for a little while without the possibility of losing his nose to frostbite, so everything's feeling a little different for a Saturday. She gets a little antsy when Jake's somewhere not fully supervised, even if the courtyard is outside a door she can see through and has zero access from anywhere else.

(The other day he asked her to go away while he colored.

"This is for me," he'd said, and actually pushed his bedroom door closed. So she's trying not to hover, and she absolutely did not get even a little bit upset that Jake doesn't need her quite so much anymore.)

The turn in the weather meant Friday night was insane, and she's not running behind with clients but she's definitely dragging ass mentally. Karen in the cafe has had a coffee waiting for her the last two times she's gone back, and she really wants a nap.

Instead, she's using her lunch hour to google how to sew superhero costumes. Mike's probably better at this kind of shit than she is — the guy's a ballerina for god sake — but whatever, she can learn.

(Seriously, she learnt how to put a Lego model of a hidden lair last week. How fucking hard can it be to stitch some material together?)

"Who do you want to be again?"

"Red Robin," Jake says around the straw hanging from his mouth. "Or Red Hood."

"Not Red Hood," Santana replies, not even looking up. They've had this conversation already. She really needs to get better at screening the comic books they read together before they're halfway into a book and suddenly the hero's not a hero anymore.

"Red Robin," Jake sighs, then sticks a couple more fries in his mouth. "Hey, where's Rachel," he asks after a minute.

She looks at the time on her laptop. Good question, since her appointment was twenty minutes ago and Santana hadn't even noticed.

"Dunno, J-man." She shuts her laptop and sticks her head out the door, but there's no one up the front. 

"You want to go back outside for a while?" Jake nods and climbs down from the office chair he was sitting in, grabbing his cap before leaving the office. "Bathroom first, and wash your hands," she calls out.

"Will you get me when Rachel comes?"

"I promise."

Half an hour later and Rachel still hasn't shown up.

She goes back through all of Rachel's appointments in the system, but there's no contact number for her.

By the time it's getting dark, Jake's asked about twenty times when Rachel's coming, "because she said she would." She has no idea how to explain to him that Rachel's not just coming by to see him, and besides that she doesn't actually know why Rachel didn't show.

He's quiet as they walk home, and he pushes his food around on his plate, and she's actually going to wring Rachel's neck for doing this to Jake.

Later, they're watching Thursday's Grey's Anatomy on tivo, and he curls up with his head in her lap and his hands tucked between his knees. He hasn't done that since he first started not carrying a blanket around.

Seriously, fuck Rachel.


	7. Chapter 1, Part 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> apologies for the incredibly long break in posting.
> 
> this is what i would consider the end of chapter one.

It's late and busy and there are twenty-seven people in a space built for seventeen, so when Rachel shows up at the salon on Friday night, pulling her coat off as she stands by the front desk, Santana is ready to throw her out. No; _is_ going to throw her out. Who the fuck does she think she is, showing up like this?

It's been building inside her, for days or weeks before this became a valid outlet for her desire to just grab Rachel by the shoulders and scream, "what do you _want_?" in her face. It doesn't even matter, really, why Rachel keeps showing up — when she _was_ showing up, anyway — she'd known that nothing good would come from letting old things back into her life. She loves being right, but not like this.

"This place is like a night club," Rachel says as Santana storms over.

"What are you doing here," she shouts over the music.

Rachel's looking around at the overly filled space, people sitting on the couches with their freshly done hair and glasses of fruity drinks. "I was hoping you could fit me in—"

"Are you serious right now," Santana snaps, and perhaps her tone was lost in the noise or Rachel needs her eyes and ears checked, because she doesn't seem to notice that she's in serious danger of losing her spleen. "I could fit you in last Saturday. Clearly you couldn't and now I can't fit you in."

"Last Saturday," Rachel says, like she has no idea what Santana is talking about. "But I don't— Cassandra was supposed to—"

"No, you don't anything," she slams down the scissors she's holding, because she might actually stab Rachel in the middle of her confused-looking face and deflate her giant, Gonzo nose, and steps further around the front desk. She's on a roll now, and some of the things she's been wanting to say aren't going to be held back by the tremble in her balance anymore.

Jake's been quiet all week — not sad, just out of sorts, and Santana's not sure he'd even know why he feels the way he does if she asked — and this damn hobbit is not going to just waltz in here like the queen of fucking hobbit land.

Rachel does not get to do this to Jake.

"You don't bring presents to my kid," she says, taking another step forward.

"I'm sorry, I didn't realize—"

"And you don't tell him you'll see him next week, and then not show up." She thinks she might have made her point, because Rachel's backed up to the door now, her eyes wide and afraid. "He's five. He doesn't get it."

"I would never— I thought Cassandra called you. I got stuck in the—"

"I don't care where you were," she spits out, because it doesn't matter where Rachel was.

Rachel looks away and frowns for a moment, before continuing. "Santana, I apologize," and her hand sneaks out to rest on Santana's wrist where her arms are now folded over her chest. "I didn't mean to upset you."

"Jake, you leprechaun, not me," she snaps, jerking her arm away from Rachel's touch and stepping back. Rachel flinches. "And ps," she's pointing now — and all these years later she can't help but think that's how she knows she's serious, "stop putting obscenely insulting tips on your bill, which—" oh, that's not relevant, "is something you've stopped doing now. So. Yes," she takes another step back. "Keep not doing that."

The haze of her anger is receding, the music loud in her ears again. She turns her head and can see people watching them. Shit.

"I'm really sorry I upset Jake," Rachel says, the tip of her tongue tracing the corner of her mouth. "That is the last thing I ever meant to happen and," she sighs. "This was a mistake." She shakes her coat open, and starts to tug it up her arm, and wait, what?

"Where are you going," Santana frowns, that really unattractive scowl that Jake calls her Vulcan face settling into place.

"Uh," Rachel stutters, still pulling at her coat while trying to hold onto her purse.

"Sit down," Santana says, and that's weird because she's pretty sure she meant to say something like, 'don't come back.' "Just… I'm nearly done. Just wait."

Apparently she's not done seeing how hard she can press at this until it hurts.

…

She's pretty sure Monica, the woman in the chair before Rachel, just got the best haircut Santana's ever given. She'd just picked up the scissors, ignoring Rachel sinking onto the bench behind her, and started cutting. There are tiny flecks of hair all over her pants — she'd been too spaced out to stand out of the way as they fell, the rhythm of the blades sliding together over each strand the only sound in her head.

Stacey's dealing with Monica now, and that was technically her last client for the night. It's close to 9pm, which is closing.

Rachel's still sitting by the door.

She rakes her hand through her own hair, wincing as her finger catches on the stitches of her weave, and wonders if she can escape out the back door and over the fence. Probably not, and somewhere Sue Sylvester is mocking her through a megaphone.

It's been two months now, which doesn't seem right because how has she not snapped before now? Anyway, they have a routine down, which makes her laugh because, uh. They have a routine down. Tonight's is minus the very little talking they did, but Santana can ignore the awkward and just watch her fingers stroke down each lock of Rachel's hair, making sure she doesn't miss any with the conditioner and ignoring the bare column of neck that's exposed as always.

There's not a single split end she can find, and she looks pretty hard.

Rachel's sitting in her chair, hair combed out and Santana grabs the blow drier when Rachel turns around. "Wait," she says, grabbing at Santana's wrist again. "Last week you would have cut it."

The annoyance bubbles up again and she can't stop the roll of her eyes, but she shoves the blow drier back into it's place and Rachel lets go.

"I was thinking," Rachel says, settling back into the chair. "What do you think about something—" she pauses to lick at her lip. "Something dramatic. It's why I came, actually." 

She could shave Rachel's head, that would definitely be dramatic. The thought's not as cheering as it should be. "What exactly did you have in mind," she asks. She can see Rachel scratch at her eyebrow in the mirror. Her nails look like they've just been done.

"I'm not sure. I've never had a statement haircut before." Rachel pauses, and seems to come to some sort of decision before turning around again. "In high school, I tried out for Cheerios freshman year." Santana doesn't remember that. "Obviously, I didn't make the cut. But Coach Sylvester complimented my pony, and for some reasons I always held onto the vague hope that I'd perhaps have some use for it one day."

Santana hums a "Ahuh," because what the fuck is Rachel talking about? Who cares about some bullshit high school dream that died six years ago?

"Anyway, I think it's time for something different. And I think you can do that for me." She turns back around for the second time, seemingly done.

Rachel likes metaphors, and even though Santana got kicked out of the fanciest college in the country, she gets what Rachel's trying to say.

Santana scoops up a section of Rachel's hair, most of the back, and settles it between her fingers. "Okay, then," she says, and slices it clean off to the base of Rachel's neck, the outer edge of the blade pressing into her skin.

Rachel's teeth sink into her lip, a wispy noise leaking out as she breathes. Santana meets her eyes in the mirror, raises an eyebrow.

After that, Rachel just closes her eyes, her fingers flexing against the arms of the chair.

People are packing up and filtering out behind her, calling out goodbyes that she ignores in favor of watching the blade of her scissors move through Rachel's hair. The stereo cuts out, and Rachel's hair is like silk, even while wet, and she spends moments combing through each lock over and over until every strand hangs perfectly.

(This hair cut is almost a shame, because seriously, Rachel's hair is just that fucking awesome.)

When she's finished the back, she rolls her seat around to the side of Rachel's chair and takes in her profile. Her eyes are still closed, but she doesn't move when Santana runs her fingers down the still-long hair at the front, pulling it straight and then slipping the scissors through it.

(It's not something she does very often, wielding her scissors in such a brutal manner, but there are some people who truly mean it when they say they want something different, and the first blow is the most satisfying. She's not the best at reading people, that was never her role, but this is something she gets.)

Rachel hasn't flinched once, even when Santana pulls the chair Rachel's sitting in back from the bench. Santana moves in front of her, and as she goes to touch the front of Rachel's hair her eyes flutter open. She doesn't look at Santana's hands where they hover near her head, just focuses on Santana's face so close to her own.

Santana's fingers slip around the hair falling at the side of Rachel's face, and she fixes her eyes on the part in Rachel's hair. As the blade of the scissors slips around the lock, Rachel finally looks away, eyes closing again before the blades close.

By the time she's done, Santana's beginning to think Rachel's fallen asleep, but when she switches the hairdryer on, Rachel sits up straighter. As each lock dries it curls loosely, and she coaxes each one to sit neatly against the next. Even without product, and the light in the salon dim — when did that happen? — her hair is just so shiny, and she loops a lock around her finger for a moment, before settling it into place along Rachel's jaw.

She steps back, watching Rachel sit there in stillness. Everyone's gone now.

"You can look now," she breaks through the silence, and after a long moment Rachel's eyes open, blinking a couple of time.

She leans forward in her seat, squinting at her own reflection. "Oh," she breathes, and her hand raises, fingers skirting along the ends of curls. One lock catches before pulling back into place, and Rachel laughs soundlessly.

Santana leaves Rachel to stare at herself in the mirror, putting a few things away and then perching at the front desk. The street lights outside filter in through the front glass, the only lights left on inside coming from the back, and Rachel steps through the band of darkness in between, fingers still trailing over the edge of her hair.

She stops beside where Santana is sitting, the wrong side of the desk for a client, and lays her hand on the desk. "I think I like it."

"You think," Santana says neutrally.

"You have to get used to these things, but yes, I think so." Rachel touches her hair again, and Santana pulls her hand away before she realizes what she's doing.

"Stop touching it," she says. "I just spent all that time fixing it."

Rachel lowers her hand. "Sorry." She steps back from the desk, digs around in her purse, and Santana's close to sighing in defeat because, seriously, something else? But Rachel just pulls her wallet out, flipping it open to get her Visa out.

There's something sad about the lack of photos inside. Santana thinks about her own wallet with Jake and Mike's faces smiling behind the little plastic window, and wonders if people read as much into that as she's doing to Rachel right now.

No tip later, and Rachel's gone. "I promise to call, myself, if I can't make it next weekend," she says as she's holding the door open.

Santana throws a halfhearted wave from where she sits, not at all happy about the situation, but the weird buzz of anger, or whatever it was, that's been with her all week is finally gone.

…

When she and Jake moved into their own place, it came with an interesting side consequence: actual time to herself. Little boys — four months old and endlessly screaming and eating and shitting, or four years old and turning everything into a race and a fight — consume every corner of the space they occupy, filling it up with their crazy levels of energy.

(Their apartment — the one where Mike had slept on the couch until his roommate could find somewhere else to live and she had a way to help with rent — was as small as her closet back in Lima. The real one, not the metaphorical one. Jake's crib lived in her bedroom, and not only because in the beginning she was the one who had to get up with him a million times every night.

There was nothing they could do but put up with being in each other's faces, and each other's everything else. Mike saw her in various states of undress so many times, coming in to pick up Jake when he'd cry, the fact that he'd also seen her naked and sweating and screaming — sex and child birth have some weird commonalities — wasn't even an afterthought. They'd had no choice but to become incredibly comfortable with each other; they were on the same side in the battle between them and the squirmy little thing they'd accidentally brought into the world.)

Even with Mike, there was no escaping the way Jake's very presence leaves room for little else, and without him there's no ignoring it, either, at least when he's with her. She loves her kid, but now that Jake spends Sunday nights with Mike, it's given her hours and hours all to herself.

She's never worked out what to do with them.

The tv's on, and she's halfheartedly picking at a bowl of pasta. It's not late, but she had a glass of wine and she's sleepy from that and the heating turned up high, the only light from the tv and a lamp in the corner. She changes the station from a Law & Order rerun — she's seen this one before. The killer's the super hot lesbian, which makes her sigh — through a handful of stations until she finds Josie and the Pussycats on Cartoon Network. Cartoon girls in catsuits? Yes, thank you.

She's practically asleep sprawled out on the couch when her phone vibrates against the glass of the coffee table, and she kicks it closer to the edge with her foot so she can reach out and snag it. The background is a picture of Jake on his first day of school, her sunglasses perched on his nose and a Red Sox cap on his head, and she swipes across his face to open the one— two— what the fuck, three— messages she just received.

She frowns up at her phone, the first message is from Erin, the second from Toni, and she presses her finger to Erin's message.

_holy shit you just got a shout out on—_

__

Her phone starts vibrating in her hand, Mike's face appearing on the screen and the Gumby theme song blasting from the speaker, and she stabs at the answer button.

"What the fuck—" she barks, as Mike says "What the fuck," and they both pause for a second.

"You go," she says, sitting up on the couch.

Mike waits a beat, and then, "You just got name dropped by Rachel Berry on the Grammys red carpet."

She pulls the phone away from her ear, blinks at the screen as it lights up again. Why was Mike even watching the— actually, "why are you watching the red carpet for the Grammys," she asks when she brings the phone back to her ear. Way easier question to deal with.

"Because I am. Santana, the Grammys red carpet. For her hair. That's huge," Mike breathes, his voice rising with excitement. In the background she can hear Jake yelling about Rachel being on the television.

She has no idea what to say to this. She hangs up with a short, "I have to go."

Famous people aren't her clients, rich people are. This has never happened to her before, and for it to come at the hands of Rachel is making her brain whiteout a little. The remote is on the rug by her foot, and she picks it up, flipping over to E!. The red carpet's got another fifteen minutes to go, and she hits the program guide button. It'll be on again as soon as it's over.

Her leg bounces as she waits and the sign of her impatience annoys her. Santana's not sure what she's expecting to see, but she has to see it. She goes to the bathroom, to kill some time, and then wanders into the kitchen and pours herself another glass of wine. Halfway back to the couch she turns back, bringing the bottle with her.

Katy Perry has some weird indie thing going on that makes Santana uncomfortable over how hot she finds it. At that point she grabs her phone again, opens up the browser and types Rachel's name into the search box.

The news results at the top are all for music news sites, mostly stuff she's never heard of but one of them is Rolling Stone and as she waits for that to load, the live coverage ends and loops back around to the start again. She ups the volume on the tv then looks back at her phone.

There's no actual way she's reading what's in front of her.

She's never heard of the specific artist Rachel's done vocals for, but even she knows what Def Jam is and how huge this must be that they're debuting a track at the fucking Grammy Awards. She scrolls down a little further and there's a tiny bio about Rachel having been on Broadway and the guy, Eden Hill, having seen her in, shit, _Chicago_ , and liked her voice.

She doesn't get any further before Rachel's face is on her tv screen, and the fact that she's just sitting there watching this happen in her lounge room makes her feel a little dizzy. Rachel's talking, on her tv screen, and her hair looks amazing. She can't seem to pay attention until Rachel's hand, on her tv screen, comes up to play with her hair and it snaps her back into the moment, "Stop touching your hair," called out like Rachel can hear her.

"This is a new look for you," the skinny red head with the microphone — Kelly Osbourne? — says, and Rachel just keeps touching her hair and smiling.

"It is, it is," she laughs, her gaze flicking to the floor for a moment. "It seemed like a good time for something new."

"Definitely different," the interviewer says, "who'd you trust with such a big change."

Rachel looks up at that, the tip of her tongue pressing into the corner of her mouth for a second. "Santana Lopez, up in Boston," she says, her eyes tracking to the camera as she answers.

Maybe there's more to the interview, but Santana doesn't hear it, too busy scrambling for the remote to hit rewind.

She watches it over and over, but it's the same every time, and the tightening in her stomach is too. She lies in bed later, stuck on the fact that she still has no contact number for Rachel. Not that she knows what she'd do with it.


	8. Chapter 2, Part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and now for chapter 2!
> 
> it's probably redundant to apologise for taking so long between chapters at this point, but i do nonetheless. thank you everyone who sent me feedback after the last chapter, it's been both helpful and encouraging.
> 
> also, since the last time i posted i've done two meme-y things AND someone did some amazing fan art for this fic, so head on over to my tumblr and check it out: ratherembarrassing.tumblr.com/tagged/jakeverse

Even when she doesn't have Jake to get to school and herself to get to work she's awake stupidly early, but this is ridiculous. Not that she was getting much sleep anyway; twisting around in the sheets thinking of a million things she wants to say next time she sees Rachel.

As the sun starts to creep around the edges of the curtain she stays in bed, refusing to get up or go back to sleep or do anything, until Stacey calls and bitches her out about inventory. At this point she's been in bed doing literally nothing but the bare minimum to stay alive for half the day — breathing, pumping blood around her body, fantasizing about carbs — so she kind of does have to get up and walk around to the salon.

It should have been a hint to turn around and go straight back to hiding under the blankets when Karen and Jeremy start losing their shit right in the middle of the lunch rush at the cafe.

She just doesn't want to talk about it, which is awkward since everyone on the planet apparently watches the Grammys again. She gets the fuck out of the cafe as soon as Jeremy remembers Rachel from the night they ran into each other outside.

Every person in the salon asks about Rachel, and she blows every one of them off to hide out the back and count bottles of conditioner. Stacey doesn't seem to know when she's in danger — or she just doesn't care, more likely — and comes in a little while later, sitting down on a box of something.

(Santana has no damn clue how Stacey ended up working for her when she took over the salon.

She'd been working for Marco for a few months the first time Stacey was there, hanging around like she had nothing better to do with her day. She later learned Stacey was actually the last woman Marco ever dated, which is hilarious and the only thing Santana can get a rise our of Stacey with. At that point she was like six months pregnant and Stacey was the nosiest bitch Santana has ever come across, but she kept coming back every week and giving Santana a hard time about basically everything from the way she cut hair to the fact that she was a lesbian that had gotten knocked up by accident.

Stacey's a fucking bitch, and Santana kind of loves her a little bit.)

"Should we put it in the promo material," Stacey asks, knowing full well what the answer to that is. "Hair stylist to the stars!" Only Stacey could make spirit fingers look sarcastic.

Santana doesn't look up, just stretches her leg out from her spot on the floor and kicks at the corner edge of the box. It buckles and Stacey nearly ends up on her ass. Stacey laughs as she gets up, walking away before Santana can kick her in the leg, too.

...

She thinks she's mad at Rachel, but when she tries to articulate to herself why, as she counts packages of bobby pins, all she can come up with is a crazy rant about how she wasn't sure she wanted people to know they're— 

—whatever they are. And now she doesn't have a choice. It feels uncomfortably familiar, even though it's absolutely nothing at all like that. Who does she even care about knowing? Mike knows, Jake knows, and everyone else is irrelevant.

She just did _not_ see this coming, and she's had enough of that in her life, thank you kindly.

…

She's looking at hideous smock designs when she realizes she didn't actually watch Rachel's performance. That's the whole other part of why she feels weird about this. She didn't see _that_ coming, either.

It's nearly three, according to her watch, and she has to go get Jake from school first.

"Rachel was on tv!" is the first thing out of his mouth after he's come running across the courtyard. "Did you see her?"

"I saw her," she says and takes his backpack. It would take them an hour to get home if he carried it himself. She swears there was never this much homework in kindergarden when she was a kid.

She sighs as they trudge down the street. This awesome thing happened to her, and she feels like an asshole so she can't be happy about it. And she thinks Rachel's kind of an asshole for doing it, or something.She kicks at a leaf on the sidewalk and Jake laughs at her.

When they get home, she makes him a milkshake and herself a coffee, reads through the school newsletter and the other pieces of paper Jake brings home, and puts the shirt he wore to school into the wash because it's covered in glue. She thinks about dinner for a bit, but that gets her nowhere so she grabs her laptop before settling on the couch.

A YouTube search later and she's watching Rachel on stage in an incredibly short dress, bringing about six ton of class to an otherwise fairly average song.

She'd forgotten just how good Rachel was. How good Rachel _is_. Better than she was in high school, Santana thinks, but she can't really remember. The clip ends and she's just hit play again when Jake climbs over the back of the couch and flops down beside her. "Why are you watching Rachel?"

"I didn't see this part last night," she says, which is the truth.

Jake sits up on his knees and leans against her to get a better look at the screen. "Hey, that's Rachel, too," he says, pointing at one of the little boxes down the side of the screen. She squints at it - she really needs to get her eyes retested - and there's a bunch of clips from _Chicago_ , as well as some interviews. She clicks on a less official looking _Chicago_ clip.

"What's this one," Jake asks.

"It's a show Rachel was in. Like your dad's shows, but she did most of the singing."

On the screen, captured on an audience member's cellphone, Rachel is going off script in the middle of 'I Can't Do It Alone'. Santana scrolls down a little, and the caption says it's 'the last night of the show's most recent run, cast was having a lot of fun. Rachel Berry proves here why the Tony loss was such a slap to the face, there hasn't been anyone like her since perhaps her Velma predecessor Ms Neuwirth.'

Jake's giggling beside her, and she pulls her attention back to where Rachel is shimmying about on stage in a négligée. As good as she'd been in the performance from the night before, this is Rachel in her element, hamming it up for a crowd that's eating it up. It's mesmerizing to watch. Even if her memory of high school is a little unclear, she knows that Rachel was never this good back in high school. She never had the right audience.

The guilt she's been ignoring all day wells up inside her, completely beyond her control now, and she hits stop.

"This isn't for kids," she says when Jake protests.

…

"I can't believe you didn't know," Mike laughs, and she's pretty close to punching him in the face.It's not his fault, really; straws and camels come to mind as she pushes back from the kitchen table.

"Why, because it's such a surprise that I didn't care," she snaps. Just because it's not his fault exactly doesn't mean he's helping the situation.

"No," Mike cuts her off. "But you've been doing her hair for _months_ , Santana."

"So what?" She should just shut up, they've been going around in circles all through dinner and she'd be about two seconds away from telling him to get out if it weren't for Jake. 

"So how have you spent, what— almost three months? — cutting her hair and not even talking to her?"

Ugh, exactly.

She feels like a total asshole, and she doesn't know how she got away with it. Doesn't know what to do about it either, but the time to do whatever it is has apparently come.

"Well if you know so much about her, why don't you tell me."

Mike shovels some more noodles into his mouth, watching her out of the corner of his eye. "You know she left Finn."

She nods, but doesn't go back to the table, instead busying herself pouring a drink even though she hates soda from a glass.

"She went to New York," Mike continues, setting down his chopsticks and turning around to watch her move around the kitchen. "NYADA wouldn't take her until the new school year, so she took some private classes and went to auditions and stuff like that."

"She actually lived in New York? Not just in some dorm?" Something about the idea of an eighteen year old Rachel Berry wandering the streets of Manhattan on her own makes her gut clench. 

She fights it, but she remembers the day of Finn and Rachel's wedding like she's living it at that moment. She can smell the suntan lotion and flowers they all carried, and Rachel had looked ridiculous and so stupidly happy, standing in the Hudson-Hummel's backyard in her Vera Wang knock-off. But even with that image in her head, she can't imagine Rachel in New York as anything but small and alone; a child chasing grown up dreams.

(Or a child living a grown up life, which Santana knows all about.)

"That's what Sam said."

Her head jerks up at that. "How does…" she trails off.

"You know, you can ask me about them if you want," Mike says after a moment. "Santana, it's okay to be interested in people you used to know."

"No it's not."

"It really is. They ask about you."

"That's the problem!"

Jake's watching them with interested eyes, his own chopsticks abandoned, and she takes a breath before sitting back down at the table. She presses her fingers to her eyes and waits for the tightness in her throat, the one making her sound slightly hysterical, to relax. 

This, _this_ , is why she has never once, in the six and a half years she's had Mike in her life, asked how things were when he went back to Lima, or when Sam's been in town, or when he went to Chicago for Puck's prison release party. She's not even sure how she knew that's where he was going that time.

(Mrs Chang - and Santana doesn't think she'll ever be able to even think of her kid's grandmother as anything other than Mrs Chang, the woman who would tsk over a warm look when they'd all hang out in Mike's backyard during freshman year of high school - has visited at least twice a year since the week Jake was born. 

She's the one person from Lima - Mike doesn't count - that she can't just ignore into non-existence. They're not exactly close, but once she stopped trying to talk to Santana about things happening in Lima, Santana at least stayed in the room long enough to have a conversation with the woman.)

Because if she knows about them, then they might know about her. 

But Rachel knows about her, and that's…

"That's the- Whatever." She picks up her fork. "How is Trouty Mouth, anyway," she asks with every drop of casualness she possesses.

Mike picks up his chopsticks, and pretends to start eating again."Married. His wife just had a baby girl."

"I hope she's not breastfeeding," she says, but she can't get the rest of the joke out. She's been such an asshole, and she swallows down the burn it brings again.

Jake finishes his dinner and disappears somewhere. He better be doing his homework.

She's silent so long Mike stands and gathers his and Jake's dishes. She listens to Mike run water over them, and stack them in the dishwasher, and dry his hands off, and it's like every other time something from the past has come up.

"What's her name," she blurts out.

Mike's doesn't answer, and then he's at her back, arms wrapping around her shoulders as he presses a kiss to the side of her head. He pulls away, but she grabs onto his arm. Whatever kind of rude she's been to Rachel in the last three months is nothing compared to the kind of fucked up shit Mike's had to deal with from her, and she's dizzy from this new perspective.

"Was it something really lame," she asks when she lets go, and Mike's polite enough not to comment on the strangled quality to her voice.

"Selina."

She chokes on a single, soggy burst of laughter. "He's such a nerd."

She stands from the table, chair scraping across the floor, and takes her bowl over to the sink. It's half full of noodles, and she turns to the trash bin, then to the refrigerator, and then drops the bowl in the sink and leaves the room.

…

As they're leaving the cafe Saturday morning, Mike pulls her to a stop at the door and makes her look at him.

"You want me to take Jake until this afternoon?"

She nearly says yes, but even knowing how pathetic she is hiding behind a five year old it feels like too much too soon.

Besides, it would have been cruel at this point. The kid's been wigging out all week, making her show him more videos of Rachel on YouTube. It came to a head when she found a video of some Broadway charity show where Rachel did an intro with Miss Piggy and Kermit, and she was concerned she was going to have to take Jake to the hospital, he was so over-excited.

Jake's a few steps ahead of her, his Knicks cap bobbing up and down as he jumps from one line in the sidewalk to the next, and she knows he picked it out specially. He spent five minutes jumping on her bed waiting for her to come out of the shower this morning so he could ask where Rachel was from.

Rachel _is_ from New York, even if it is only recently. Stop judging; she's trying, but come _on_.

…

What did she spend all of Sunday night thinking about exactly? Santana would love to know, because she's watching Rachel stand in the entrance to the salon removing a cute little cropped jacket and she has absolutely no idea what she's going to say.

'Thanks for making people think we're friends, Professor Flitwick'?

'Thanks for the biggest boost to my career since Mrs Howard offered to spot me thousands and thousands of dollars'?

'Thanks for inserting yourself into the life I thought I'd sealed of completely from you and everyone else'?

"I'm sorry, what?"

"I said good morning, Santana." Rachel's smiling up at her, flats making her tiny compared to Santana in her heels, and damn that's a good haircut.

"You were on tv last week," falls out of her mouth, so apparently she's going with the stating-the-obvious approach.

(She's become slightly better at talking about this in the past week, if only because people were starting to think she was having a stroke every time she stared at them silently when they asked.

Admittedly, the most she's managed is "yeah, that was me," but people seem to want to impress her with their own knowledge of Rachel Berry Broadway Star after she's confirmed that much, so she hasn't needed to say much more than that.

She still wants to know why all these people were watching the fucking Grammys red carpet.)

"You saw it," Rachel sounds surprised, and Santana watches her face color noticeably. But she looks pleased, too, and Santana fights the old urge to tell Rachel she sucked just to watch her deflate.

"I did," she says. "Your hair looked good."

Rachel grins, head ducking and her hand coming up, but she stops just before she touches the lock hanging at the side of her face. Her smile grows impossibly wider, and she looks back up at Santana like it's a shared conspiracy between the two of them.

Santana inhales, waiting a beat. "The song's pretty good, too. Jake has it on his iPod."

"Really," Rachel bounces on her feet, and it's like they've gone back in time and they're standing in the choir room. "Where is he, I wanted to say hello. And that I'm sorry, after, um, you know. Last time."

She does know.  God, what a mess.

"He's just in the-" she doesn't finish her sentence as she points, and then follows the direction of her own hand and heads back to the office.

All it takes is for her to stick her head through the door and Jake sprints past her.

She wanders back to the front of the salon to find Rachel standing stiffly by Santana's station, Jake staring up at her and talking a mile a minute.

She tosses Rachel a towel, same as always, and they head over to the basins, same as always, and Jake jumps up on the footrest, same as always.

(Before Rachel had shown up that night, she'd tried to explain to Jake that Rachel was a busy lady, and if she didn't come to the salon it didn't mean she liked him any less. Rachel just had other things to do.

Maybe she should have just explained that Rachel only comes by the salon to get her hair done, but Santana's not actually sure that's true anymore.)

"Why don't you tell Jake about the time we won Nationals."

Rachel stares up at her from where she's lying back against the basin, where she's sat every week, almost, since the start of the year. It's not as if Santana's seeing her for the first time, but the tension she sees drain out of Rachel's entire body isn't new, it's been there since the beginning, and maybe it's not entirely related to Santana's recent behaviour.

Rachel's tongue swipes repeatedly at her lip. "Paradise By the Dashboard Light was horribly inappropriate for something so wholesome." 

"Yeah," she laughs, because it really was all kinds of wrong. "We were still awesome, though."

"Yes, we were."


	9. Chapter 2, Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in my hungover state i was inspired to finish this part up.

"Hey, Santana," someone calls out, and she turns around to see Stacey's sister Megan gathering up her things to leave.

(When they'd re-opened the salon, after she'd taken over from Marco and immediately gutted the place of horrifying tackiness, she'd never intended for the place to turn into what it's become. Friday nights are insane because of the publicity, but there has always been people hanging around, all the time.

She used to bring Jake into work when Mike couldn't take him, before he started kindergarten, and people — her friends and Mike's, not total randoms — would come say hi if they were around. It's Newbury. People are always around. And when she took over, and it was her and Stacey and a handful of other staff, people just started hanging out, coming to play with Jake and say hi to Stacey. And her, too, she supposes.)

"You and Mike coming to St Patty's?"

"I am, Mike's working." She turns back to the computer and finishes up Rachel's next appointment. "Is everyone coming by here first? Do I need to pretend to be open in the morning, or can we just go straight to the bar?

Megan laughs. "I don't know. Are we old enough and rich enough to skip pre-drinking drinks yet?"

"I'm definitely old enough to think I'm going to die if I start before lunch. I have one appointment early, anyway."

"You're no fun, mom," Megan prods, and Santana wonders again why she didn't hire Megan instead of her sister. "It's St. Patrick's Day, you can't work."

"Is everyone in Boston Irish?" Rachel asks hesitantly as she comes up behind them. "People appear to be more excited about this than the Super Bowl, which I didn't think would be possible for this town."

"Rachel! You have to come," Megan says, bouncing with far too much excitement. Megan's a huge nerd and was definitely hanging around today to meet Rachel. She wasn't the only one. Jake hadn't been impressed that other people were taking up Rachel's attention.

"Oh, um." Rachel bites at her lip, glancing at Santana.

Shit.

It wouldn't be the worst thing, Rachel and a random collection of friends and alcohol. Everyone else will love Rachel, so it's not like they'll have to spend all night talking to each other. Which, okay, is contrary to her whole new Not Being An Asshole to Rachel thing. But the buffer of Jake being there, and then Megan and everyone else, too, had been too tempting to fall back on, and she kind of wants to try again.

She rolls her eyes, but it's at herself more than anything. "Whatever, it's awesome. You should come, it's like a crime in this town not to go out and get your drink on. Seriously, I think they've arrested people." Rachel looks like she wants to laugh. "When did you move here?" she asks, and they're both abruptly, painfully aware it's the most personal thing Santana's asked Rachel.

"Just before Christmas," Rachel answers.

It's like something long-blocked up breaks through, a thousand questions suddenly burning on the back of Santana's tongue. Why did she take the gig up here? Does she know anyone here besides Santana and Jake? Where's she living? Is she going back to Broadway now that she's got a recording gig? Why does she keep coming back when Santana's been such a bitch?

She looks away from where Rachel's looking at her, otherwise all these questions are going to come bubbling out, and she's not sure she could actually handle getting any answers.

"So you've never done St Paddy's Boston-style. You have to come. It's on Tuesday, and," she grabs a pen off the desk and scribbles the name of the bar on an appointment card. "It's around the corner. We're too lazy to go far."

Rachel takes the card, ignoring the address on the back in Santana's awful handwriting, instead looking over the details at the front. She wants to snatch it back, away from Rachel's scrutiny, as if the information contained there is more revealing than the salon itself has been.

But Rachel just smiles up at her and nods. "Okay, I'll come. It might be late, though, I have a show."

"Yes!" Megan claps like a total idiot, and now Santana remembers why she's better off with Stacey. Megan and Rachel will probably get on like gasoline and a pyromaniac. Megan starts rambling at Rachel, and she watches as Rachel tosses a wave over her shoulder as Megan practically hustles her out the door.

…

Jake and Mike are in Jake's bedroom — the one at Mike's — doing something that involves a lot of excited yelling. She's flaked out on his couch, warm and full of some soup so spicy she'd checked her eyebrows weren't just pencil marks.

Mike's apartment is nice, if you're into sparse furnishings with weird, dude-things on display. His weights have pride of place in the living room, which is a thing they had constantly fought about when they'd lived together, because hello, television? But there's also two bookshelves overflowing with a bunch of crap. There's actually textbooks on there, and she's not even sure he had textbooks at dance school. She's looking at a hardcover book on vertebrate paleontology and evolution — no, really, the title is _Dinosaurs: Vertebrate Paleontology and Evolution_  — when something on the shelf above catches her eye.

She knows what it is immediately, but she gets up and goes over the the bookshelf anyway. A copy of the 2012 Thunderclap is wedged between a  _West Side Story_  program and a stack of dvd cases. She's about to pull the yearbook from its place when her brain processes the handwritten labels on the dvd cases.

Jake's thumping footsteps are coming down the hallway, and before she can give it another thought she grabs two of the cases and drops them into her purse.

…

The light from the television is blindingly bright in the darkness of the room.

She's sitting on the coffee table, remote in hand — she shouldn't be sitting here, especially for this long. The dvd is paused, the counter at 0:00:01 and the screen nothing but a blur of white light.

…

This is not a good song.

This is not a good drink.

This is not a good moment for Rachel to show up, really, really late.

Santana's not really clear on why, but someone thought it was a good idea to get the bartender to unlock the karaoke machine. That was at least — she squints at her watch, and it  _might_  be 10pm — three hours ago, and their group of attention seekers, either by trade or by nature, hasn't given it up yet.

The bar, although superficially a regular bar, is owned by Marco's husband. Beer is far too proletarian, but because it's St Patrick's Day, every single cocktail is being made with Midori, with some really disgusting results. One of said drinks is currently in her hand as she sways in her spot on the stage, Erin hanging from her shoulder and the mic stand, knocking her about and making her spill her drink everywhere. Oops.

She sets her glass on the ground, because it's seriously disgusting and she's sobered up a little too much to not care, and when she straightens up she spots Rachel standing at the back of the room by the entrance. But it's her part of the song, and Erin's tugging her by the neck back to the microphone. This is not going according to plan.

When she's finished an all-girl quartet of 'Man, I Feel Like A Woman' — she hates Erin so much — she jumps off the stage, managing to not break her neck, and pushes her way back to where Rachel is leaning against the bar with something in her glass that looks like it came from a swamp.

"Why were you singing like that," Rachel asks in greeting. She looks annoyed.

"Don't drink that," she says, and grabs it out of her hand.

"Santana, answer me. Why were you singing like that?"

"Like what," she says, but she's trying to get the bartender's attention.

Rachel pulls her back around. "You have a beautiful voice, as I recall, and you were up there murdering that song."

"Oh. Who cares?" She turns back to the bar. "Rick, don't feed my friends the rejects."

When Rachel's got another drink and they've moved away from the bar, Rachel grabs her elbow and stops her from leading them over to their booths. "I'm serious, Santana, you weren't even trying up there."

"It was just messing around," she says. And she was just messing around; performing is everyone else around her's deal now, not hers. But she knows she has an awesome voice, and she doesn't need people hassling her about it, exactly like Rachel is now. "Singing's not really my thing anymore." She should have grabbed herself another drink.

"Oh," is all Rachel says after a moment, although she looks like she wants to say more. "Okay. Um, are your friends here? I'm sorry I'm late, by the way. The audience was particularly rowdy this evening."

"Who'd have though, rowdy people on a state holiday for drinking. And they're down here. Just warning you, Megan's been asking where you were, she wants to sing something with you."

For someone who just spent the evening singing for an actual job, Rachel looks far too pleased about this.

…

Some seriously stilted introductions later, and Santana's already thinking this was a terrible idea. She's wedged into the corner of a booth with Rachel sitting next to her, and even though there are a bunch of other people sitting with them, all trying to talk to Rachel, she thinks she's the one who should probably be, like, entertaining her, or whatever it is you do when you invite — sort of — your former high school… friend (Nemesis? Fremesis) out for drinks after work.

She doesn't think silently drinking together is whatever it is.

"Have you had dinner?" she's asks suddenly. She thinks Rachel came straight from her show, judging by her freshly scrubbed face and just a coating of mascara, and the drink in her hand would fuck anyone up, even without proper preparation.

"Oh, um," she says, shrugging. "Not really, no."

The awkwardness of the whole situation is written all over Rachel's face, and Santana finds she's really had enough of it; it shouldn't be this hard to discuss whether someone has eaten. She's more intimately acquainted with Rachel's scalp than anyone else on the planet, she can inquire about her stomach in a casual manner.

She hoists herself up onto the back of the booth seat and when she spots one of the waitresses she knows in the next row of booths she shouts over the noise for some fries. She's about to climb back down, but something itches in her mind and she swallows past that thing that always holds her back. "Grab me a veggie burger, no cheese, too."

"Drink your drink, she says at Rachel's surprised look, and sinks back into her place.

…

"So you knew Santana in high school. Tell me everything," Erin demands as she throws herself into the seat opposite them, talking over the top of the three other people discussing Rachel's Grammys performance.

"Tell her nothing," Santana says before Rachel has a chance to swallow her mouthful and then open her giant trap. Why didn't she think this would happen when she agreed to Rachel coming? Should they have discussed this beforehand?

"Aw, come on. I'm sure you've got all kinds of deep, dark secrets you've kept from us."

Rachel's eyeing her now, clearly unsure about what to do.

"I bet you were a nerd!"

Rachel snorts at that, her hand clapping over her mouth.

"I was not a nerd," Santana huffs. She's not sure why she's defending herself, the truth definitely isn't better than anything people could imagine.

"She was a cheerleader," Rachel says when Erin stops laughing. The table is silent for a moment, Santana trying to decide if she even wants to get in Rachel's face, and everyone else waiting for her to make her decision.

Then Erin starts laughing hysterically. Apparently that piece of information is enough to distract her from asking anything else, and when she goes to get another drink, Santana catches Rachel's eye.

"Thanks for not saying," she pauses. "Anything. To them, I mean, not Jake. That's fine."

Rachel picks up the last of her burger. "I never would, Santana."

...

It takes Megan all of five seconds to to get Rachel up on stage after she's finished eating and has another drink in her hand. At least, Santana thinks it was five seconds; she probably shouldn't have picked up one of the rejected drinks from their table.But she wasn't paying attention, and now Rachel's on stage, sparkly microphone in hand, and it's so weirdly out of place against Rachel's tight, dark jeans and dark, silky shirt. There's nothing about that outfit that says sparkly, not even the shiny buckles on her boots, but she'd grinned when she picked it up and Santana's downgraded the whole situation from a terrible idea to at least an okay idea.

After Megan is kindly booed off once people in the crowd realize the other person on stage can actually sing, Rachel's up there alone. From where she's sitting in the booth, Santana can see her flip through the song list, pausing at a few places before moving on.

She's a little surprised when the opening riff from 'Rock Your Body' starts playing. Rachel Berry does not seem like a Justin Timberlake kind of girl, but the crowd is into it anyway.

And, as if she hadn't already figured it out from YouTube, Rachel's definitely learned how to dance since high school.

…

"You knew her in high school?" Tall Mike asks from his place in the booth, twisted around so he can watch Rachel finish up the last song someone had requested she sing.

"Yeah." Tall Mike's one her favorite people on the planet, because he isn't nosy and never has been.

He's looking around at the stage again, but he turns back to her as Rachel makes her way back towards the table slowly, stopping to talk to people along the way. "She's good people," is all he says with a nod.

…

Santana's fighting with the paper towel dispenser when Rachel comes through the bathroom door.

"Hi," Rachel chirps. She's a little bit liquored up, but Santana's a lot so, now, so as if that matters.

"Hi," she says, still trying to grab onto the stack of paper wedged inside. "Ugh, whatever." She goes back into the stall and grabs a roll off toilet paper from above the tank.

Rachel's leaning against the sink, silently amused by her flail about with the paper. "Thanks for inviting me," she says after Santana finally works the roll open and pulls some off.

"I didn't," she says to herself reflexively, tossing her makeshift hand towel in the trash and wishing she could throw her stupid mouth in there, too. It doesn't  _matter_  that she didn't invite Rachel, she's here now and that is what she's got to work with. "I didn't mean—  I just meant—"

"It's fine, Santana, I know what you meant," Rachel says, turning to wash her hands in the sink.

Santana can see Rachel's face in the mirror, and the annoyance she feels at Rachel's nonchalance spurs her forward. "No, look, you  _don't_  know what I mean." How could she when Santana herself doesn't. "I'm. Those guy out there," she flings her hand in the direction of the door, "all that stuff means nothing to them."

"And I meant it when I said I would never say anything," Rachel sighs, facing her again.

"That's not the—" she trails off with her own sigh. It's not about keeping things separate anymore.

Rachel moves towards the door, pausing as she opens it. "Don't worry about it, Santana."

She's pretty sure it's too late for that now.

...

"I just need about six years to unravel everything, okay." She sets a drink down in front of where Rachel's sitting in a booth alone. Her own drink is half empty, and she slides into the opposite seat.

Rachel picks up the drink and takes a slug without flinching. "You're not the only one," she says, and then clinks her glass against Santana's.

…

This bed is really comfortable.

It takes her a minute to realize she's not in a bed, she's slumped down in the booth with her face a little bit stuck to the leather seat back.

"Give me your phone," she says to Rachel, who jumps a little since they'd been sitting there in silence, watching the crowd thin out. Not thinning out is Erin and Tall Mike's desire to stay on that stage singing horrible duets.

"Why?" Rachel asks, but slides it over anyway.

Santana ignores her for a moment, concentrating on pressing the buttons in the right order. "Because," she says, her own phone starting to buzz on the table, "now when you disappear, I can at least yell at you about it immediately." She hits another couple of buttons before giving Rachel back her phone. "I'm in there as Satan."

"Santana!" Rachel cries, and snatches up her phone and presses at the screen for a moment. A blinding flash goes off and Santana smacks her knee on the table, it startles her so much. "Sorry," Rachel mumbles, but she's studiously playing with her phone. "There," she says with a nod, and sets her phone down.

They go back to being silent for a while.

"Why'd you sing that song?"

"What do you mean?" Rachel replies softly.

"This bar is owned by the lovechild of Elton John and Liberace, I know there's some Barbra and Celine and probably every Broadway soundtrack in existence in that catalog."

Rachel shrugs. "People requested them. I was hardly going to say no."

"No, but you picked that first one. And that song isn't you. Like, at all."

Rachel doesn't answer for a while, and even though she'd pushed it away earlier she picks up her drink and takes a sip. "Performing is for other people," she says eventually. "What I like isn't the first consideration."

Santana sits up so she can see Rachel properly. "Not many people here now. Go sing something you want to do."

"I'm okay," Rachel says, shrugging again in what Santana is coming to recognize as a nervous habit.

"I know for a fact 'Don't Rain on My Parade' is in there. I have seen way too many a gay man nearly pass out from trying in this place." Rachel's eyes light up at that, even as she ducks her head to hide it. "Please?" she adds, because it's not going to kill her to be polite. And, okay, yes, she wouldn't mind seeing the first song she ever saw Rachel perform, even if it was from the wings of the stage, where she didn't care how much the girl annoyed her, she just wanted to listen to her sing.

Rachel bites at her lip, but the hesitation only lasts a second longer. "Okay," she says, and her hand rests on Santana's wrist as she climbs out of the booth.

…

Okay, that didn't suck.


	10. Chapter 2, Part 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this part was a hot mess to write, but i don't know if that's a good thing or a bad thing anymore.

There's a message on her phone when she wakes up the next morning.

_Even though you didn't invite me, thank you for showing me a proper Boston St Patrick's Day. I had a really great night and I hope you did, too, although I will never be drinking anything green again. x R._

__

"God, keep it in your pants, Berry," she quietly laughs, then throws the phone across the mattress and goes back to sleep. 

…

"Get down from there!"

She's pretty much convinced she's a superhero some days, but that doesn't make Jake Batboy or whatever, so it's not okay that he's jumping on her bed while he shouts some tune, with nothing but his cape and mask and underwear on.

The apartment is covered in red and black thread, and she spilled yellow paint on a pair of jeans she should not have been wearing to paint a kid's party costume, but she has made one badass Red Robin outfit, even if she does say so herself.

And no one needs to know she borrowed Stacy's friend Eddie's gimp hood to work out how to make the mask. She hasn't used so much hand sanitizer since she was changing diapers regularly.

They're just making some minor alterations -- buying a size up on the pattern so it will fit will also trip a kid over and make him a fire hazard -- and then they'll be done.

"Come here and put these on," she says, and he finally scrambles off the bed and comes over to the footstool she brought in from the bathroom. "Up."

Jake jumps up on the stool, still humming and dancing around even as she unties his cape and pulls the red shirt over his head.

(Mike's been taking Jake to his dance studio in the afternoons a couple of times a week for months now, and it didn't take long before he started watching what they were doing and copying them from the sidelines. It's how Mike came up with the idea for their birthday routine.

They're so alike, and sometimes she can't see herself in Jake at all.

Mike is constant movement, like he's forever trying to hold back whatever it is that he only lets loose when he's dancing, and never quite succeeding. It's small and fluid, but it's always there. Jake, on the other hand, has never met the idea of restraint when it comes to expressing his feelings as if he needs his whole body to do so.

She's not like them, most of the time holding everything in place as much as possible. At least until it all bubbles over, and then shit gets messy.

But upset babies who just want to be rocked and giggly toddlers who want to be lifted and swung about don't really care if constant expenditure of emotion isn't your thing. She's learned to deal with it.)

"What are you going to be in your class's musical?" she asks around the pins clamped between her lips.

"I dunno. Do I get to choose?" He wriggles away from where she's trying to tack the hem of the shirt at his side.

"Stop moving," she says without any expectation that it will happen. "And I don't think so. But Mrs Duggin will ask for people to be a dancing character, or a singing character, and you can volunteer if you want to."

"Did you do characters when you sang at school?"

She pulls the last pin from her mouth and pushes it through the material. "Just once."

"With Rachel?"

She's about to say no, but then she remembers. "Yeah, actually, I did."

"Was Rachel a cow or a horse?"

She doesn't mean to laugh, but the mental image is too much. "Neither, J-man, it wasn't that kind of play."

"Oh. What were you then?"

"We were both just ladies. No animals in our musical."

"Sounds dumb," he says, holding his arms up so she can pull the shirt off. He moves to run off, but she grabs him before he gets away.

"It wasn't dumb, and we're not done yet," she says, holding the pants so he can step into them. "Back on the step, please."

She's run out of pins, so she goes to get more and when she comes back Jake's foot is tapping to the beat of whatever he's humming again.

"Switch legs," she says, and he does, switching legs like he's passing the beat from one to the other. His other foot keeps time as she folds the material around his ankle, the sound of his humming above her head and she hums three bars before she realizes she knows the song.

"Ow!" Jake cries, and she pulls the pin back.

"Sorry," she says, rising up onto her knees.

"That hurt!"

"I'm sorry, Jake." She takes a breath, rubs her hand over his ankle. There's no mark there. "Where'd you hear that song?"

"What song?" he mumbles, crouching down to pull up the leg of his pants, face screwed up in annoyance.

"The one you were just humming."

He rubs at his skin, even though there's nothing to rub at. "You were listening to it when I couldn't sleep."

"The… the other night?" she asks, but she knows it was the other night, because when the fuck else would he have heard 'Don't Stop Believing'?

"I dunno. Can I have a Superman band aid?"

"Yeah," she says, her thumb rubbing over his ankle again. "Go get the first aid kit."

"I can't get it, it's up the top!" He pulls a face at her like she's crazy, and she shakes her head, bringing her focus back to the fact that she nearly stabbed her kid in the leg with a pin.

…

She can't help herself after that.

It's late again, and she checks Jake's actually sleeping. She straightens his covers, pulling his Red Sox cap out from underneath his pillow to hang it from his bedpost. The nightlight by the bed is turning slowly, blue glow creeping through the gap she leaves as she pulls the door over and painting the hallway in a panel of swirling stars.

She wanders down the hallway and checks the locks. She kicks the shoes — Jake's sneakers, a rule from Mike he follows here for no other reason than habit — by the front door into the rack.

The only other light left on is in the kitchen, but it dimly fills the living room and leaks into the hallways around it, enough for her to make her way.

She sinks onto the rug and turns the tv and dvd player on. The two cases are tucked away in the tv cabinet and she pulls them out, and sets them in front of her - blank besides Mr Shue's handwriting on the spine.

Maybe there is a god, she thinks, because in her blind grab she only took sophomore and junior years' competitions. She slots the 2011 disc into the player, holding it between two fingers.

This is different from the other night, when all she could see was the one thing she didn't want to.

Watching Quinn and Sam prance about like a pair of show ponies is easy. She wasn't there for this part, hidden backstage with everyone else until their cue.

Santana doesn't really remember this day, but the moment she sees herself on that stage, back to the camera and flanked by Rachel and— and Brittany, the rush of those few minutes is right there under the surface of her skin, bringing the memory with it.

The numbness she otherwise felt back then, everywhere except on stage and in beds, is like an old friend, and it makes it harder to look away, or easier to not look away.

(Sitting on the coffee table the other night, that numbness was not her friend, and for the first time in six and a half years the hurt had a face she had no defence against, just as she had none standing in the Hudson-Hummel backyard at the time.

Some kind of superhero she is.)

Her eyes flick across the screen, taking in the smiling faces of people who mean nothing to her now, and their presence is a comfort in comparison to the twirling body she loved and fucked and destroyed herself over.

(Her own grinning face on the tv has no idea what's to come of the feeling in her gut whenever she looked at Brittany, and she's not even sure she'd warn herself, but if she had to, this is the self she would warn, the one who never even tried.

As numb as she was to it all, at least then she didn't know what she would miss.)

It's nice to see all those old, meaningless faces, and she thinks she still really likes that song even after all this time. But she knows what comes next, _when_ comes next, and she bypasses the remote and turns the dvd player off completely.

Her leg's going numb from sitting on the floor, and she stumbles a little as she stands and turns the kitchen light off. It's dark now, just the blue swirling lights down the hall, but it's enough to find her own bedroom.

…

"Rachel!"

"Hello, Jake," Rachel says, bopping him on the brim of his Sox cap. "This is new, I don't think I've ever seen you wearing a baseball cap."

Santana huffs out a laugh, backing away from where Rachel has just opened a door to a very, very long diatribe Jake has about how it's not appropriate to wear other teams' hats when the Red Sox are playing, and by when they're playing he means the entire season, and it's opening week so that means starting from now.

Rachel's early, and Santana has another appointment, so she leaves them sitting up the front. Half an hour later they're not there, and when she looks in the office Rachel's perched on the edge of the couch, hands pressed against Jake's front and back, while they both sing a single note.

When she spots Santana in the doorway Rachel breaks off abruptly, Jake trickling off behind her. "I was just showing--"

"Mommy, Rachel's gonna teach me how to sing," Jake interrupts.

"If that's okay with your mom, remember," Rachel directs at Jake, before turning back to Santana. "He mentioned they're doing a musical at school, and that he wants to be the farmer." At this, Jake's chest puffs up, all false bravado at having what was until now a secret — at least from Santana — revealed. "I can't really help with the dancing, it's not a skill I find easy to explain, since I struggled enough to gain it in the first place."

"Daddy can help with the dancing," Jake says, and Rachel blinks at him. "But not the singing. But Rachel can, Mom, please. She said she wanted to."

"Right, yes," Rachel nods.

Santana steps further into the room, pushing the door over behind her. "Jake, Rachel's very busy, I don't know if this is such a—"

"But Rachel said so. And she said I should come and see her perform, that it would give me something to, emu— um, em…" Jake looks at Rachel a little helplessly.

"Emulate," Rachel says, and ducks her head a little, having the decency to look a tiny bit abashed.

"Emulate!" Jake repeats. "That's like copy, right?"

Rachel nods, then stands. "Santana, honestly, I wouldn't offer if I didn't have the time, or the desire."

"And she said I can come see her show!"

She ignores Jake's vibrating excitement for a moment. "When would you do this?"

"I can come early for my appointments," Rachel says, like she's thought this all out. "Or— or whenever works for you. I assume late evenings aren't very good, and that's the only time I have pre-existing commitments for the moment."

"Okay."

"No, but— oh. Really?" Rachel asks, surprised.

"Sure. He wants to learn, you can teach him."

Jake jumps at that, fist pump and everything. "Yes!"

"Good," Rachel nods, and then looks up at her with a confused sort of smile. "I didn't think you'd be so agreeable."

She didn't think she'd be so agreeable either, based on having known herself her whole life. But there's no reason to say no.

"Yeah…" she trails off. "Some planets must be in the right alignment or something."

Rachel laughs at that, quietly, as if she's not sure she should.

"Come on," Santana says, "time to get your hair all did."

...

She's gathering up hers and Jake's things, and about to lock up the salon when a tiny slip of a girl hurries in. "Thank god you're still here."

"Um, excuse me?"

The girl starts digging around in her bag. "I'm Cassandra, Rachel Berry's personal assistant."

"Oh, the one who can't even cancel an appointment."

Cassandra looks up at that. "Oh, that's what Rachel was so angry about. Um, sorry about that, you have no idea how crazy that weekend was."

"Ahuh," Santana says. What the hell is with this girl? "And you're here now because…"

"These are for you," Cassandra says, tugging an envelope free from her bag and handing it to Santana. "Tickets for tomorrow night's show."

"What?"

"Rachel said she invited your son to the show." She pulls out her phone and begins typing something on it. "If you can't make it, please call me. The show is massively sold out, and these tickets can go to someone important."

 _This_ is Rachel's assistant? She's actually speechless.

"My number's on the back," Cassandra says, and then she's gone without so much as a parting glance.

"She was rude," Jake says from behind her.

She opens the envelope, and inside there are three tickets for The Paramount, Rachel's name printed across the front.

…

Mike wasn’t lying when he said they had fantastic seats, because she’s staring at the ass of the catcher for the Orioles, and they’re close enough that she can see he’s not wearing any underwear. Her face is starting to hurt from expressing the strength of her disgust.

But she has a very expensive beer and hotdog, and there’s a stiff brimmed cap with the stickers still on it sitting on her head, so no one can say she didn’t get into the spirit of the whole thing. Plus opening day means people haven’t been given much of a reason to be pissed off yet, so there’s a lot less grumbling, which is the kind of thing she started caring about around the time Jake started learning to repeat the words he hears. Not that this stops her from yelling “you suck!” every time the other team strikes out.

“I’m never bringing you again,” Mike sighs from his seat on the other side of Jake.

She hates that she can say this with actual knowledge – she spent most of her high school career cheering for a sport she very proudly knew absolutely nothing about, and now she knows what the 12 second rule is – but she eyes Mike over Jake’s head. “But they _do_ suck,” she says. “It’s not rude if it’s true,” she adds after a second.

“That is—Santana, what kind of thing is that to—“

Mike is so easy to stir up sometimes; she can’t be blamed for taking advantage.

"They suck just means they're losing because they deserve it because they're bad," Jake says, and she seriously loves her kid so much right now.

The umpire calls third out, and she goes to pee while all the tourists sing 'Sweet Caroline', and when she gets back Mike’s paying for some popcorn. Even though it's cold, the sun is warm and she's toasty inside her jacket.

“What are you doing tonight?” she asks as she settles back into her seat.

“Why?”

She ignores his question. “No lady waiting for you somewhere after this?”

“What do you want, Santana?”

“Want me to be your hot date while we get our kid all cultured up?”

“Excuse me?”

“Okay, okay,” she laughs. “Rachel invited Jake to come see her show, and she sent over three tickets. I dunno who she thinks I’d bring on a date with a kid to see a high school friend sing show tunes, but the answer is you.”

At Rachel's name Jake turns away from where a couple of players are horsing around in front of the dugout. "We're going tonight?"

"If you're not too tired after this."

"I won't be!" She's not entirely sure that will be true if he doesn't sit down.

"You want me to come?" Mike asks.

"Yeah, I mean, why not?" She shrugs. "Got the extra ticket."

Mike just looks at her. "And you're cool with that?"

She picks up her beer from where she'd stashed it under her seat. "Wouldn't have asked if I wasn't, Mikey-boy."


	11. Chapter 2, Part 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry there was such a gap between updates, new york was occupying my time :)
> 
> all the thanks to the people who took a look at this while it was in progress; the rust was hard to get off.

She can't find her damn shoes.  
  
She's three shoebox piles deep into her wardrobe looking for her Louboutin Mary Janes, and she's getting dust in her face. But she needs those shoes. They're the only shoes that are perfect with the dress she's also getting dust all over, and this is the dress she's wearing. She has to, it's perfect.  
  
(It took her exactly four days of college to work out that her high school wardrobe was so completely inappropriate for anywhere outside of a night club that it was laughable. Her Papi-funded wardrobe makeover ended up filling her eBay-funded baby supplies savings account, which probably worked out for the best anyway because somehow she still didn't learn — what was her obsession with dresses so tight people could see her ovaries and why did no one make her stop?  
  
When she'd lost all the baby weight, and then some, Stacey of all people had dragged her down the street and shoved her into a $400 pair of jeans that made her ass look amazing. She couldn't afford them, but Stacey said to consider it a loan. "You'll pay me back later.")  
  
"Mommy, can you tie my tie?"  
  
She crawls out from underneath the rack of shirts hanging overhead, and Jake's standing in the doorway in his little suit pants and shirt, tie hanging around his neck in a knot. "Come here, J-man," she says and rocks back to sit on her butt, unfolding her legs from under her. Stupid cheerleading knees.  
  
"You excited?" she asks, lifting the tie over Jake's head so she can unknot it.  
  
"Yes!"  
  
"You know it's like when we go see your dad dancing, right? You can't call out or distract Rachel while she's on stage."  
  
"I know," he says, drawing the word out.  
  
"Excuse you, watch your tone." And yes, she's aware that he comes by his petulance honestly, but that's no reason not to discourage it. He's five and it's cute, but eventually he'll be fifteen and it won't be and oh, she can't even think about that. Not while he's standing here in a suit.  
  
"Sorry, Mommy," he mutters, even as he tilts his head back so Santana can tie his tie. "Are we going soon?"  
  
"As soon as your dad gets here," Santana says distractedly, holding Jake at arm's length to check that his tie is straight. "God, you're so grown up," she sighs.  
(Sometimes she wonders if she would think Jake was so awesome if he weren't her kid.  
  
She's never been a huge fan of kids. Brittany's little sister was a total _shit_ , and the huge increase in exposure to other kids besides her own once Jake hit an age where socialising with other kids was apparently necessary has done nothing to change her mind.  
  
But her very unbiased opinion is _of course_ she would think Jake is awesome, because she's known him for a while now, and he just is.)  
  
"Come here," she says and pulls him in, smacking a kiss against his cheek.  
  
"Ewww!" Jake cries, squirming out of her arms. "Do I have makeup on me?" he asks as he rubs at his face.  
  
"You sure do, buddy. Good thing it's your shade," Mike's voice cuts in, and Santana looks up to where he's standing in the door, letting out a low whistle.  
  
"Looking good," she says and then holds her hands out. "And I'm glad you're here. Help me up."  
  
(Not that she has any desire to go there.  
  
Or, really, that she's ever had any desire to go there. But they made a kid together, so they have a certain level of claim to each other; it's grown into a familiarity that from the outside sometimes looks comfortable in a way that makes people think they're together, and from the inside just means she gets to tell him he looks hot when he does.  
  
Which is often, because she made a kid with one seriously good looking guy. Gay or not, she knows this shit.)  
  
Mike pulls her to her feet, one of his giant hands gripping both of hers while the other grips her waist. The tight dress around her legs makes her unsteady, and he keeps his hold of her while she gets her balance.  
  
"What?" she asks when she notices him looking.  
  
"You're not so bad-looking yourself," Mike says with a smirk. "Nice dress."  
  
"Oh shut up," she laughs, and smacks his butt as she ducks around him. "And find my Mary Janes," she calls out. She knows he'll be able to find them.  
  
…  
  
It's less than a mile, but her heels aren't exactly conducive to walking.  
  
(Technically, she has a car. Or technically Mike has a car; whatever, they share a car. It lives in Mike's parking space because he actually has one, and neither of them drive it, if it can be avoided, because Boston drivers are insane.)  
  
She lets Jake swipe his CharlieCard, and doesn't make him hold her hand while they wait for the T. He's taking the evening very seriously, with his hands tucked into his pockets and hair slicked back like Fred Astaire, standing quietly between her and Mike on the platform.  
  
"I think this is going to be fun," she says, turning to look at Mike, and as says it she realizes she means it.  
  
It's not that she thought it would be awful — quite the opposite, when it comes to Rachel's singing. But when she'd decided it would be okay for them to go, okay was exactly the word for what she thought it was. It was just okay. Now...  
  
"You sound surprised," Mike replies, and she shrugs.  
  
"I like Rachel when she's singing. I always have."  
  
But she knows what she's like, and this isn't making her crazy the way it would have even a week ago. Singing or not, this is a lot of Rachel to pay attention to.  
  
But if she's actually honest with herself -- and not the bullshit level of honesty she's been known to engage in -- she's starting to think they could be friends, that Rachel actually wants to be her friend, in a way that has nothing to do with their shared history of photos in lockers and ugly pink bridesmaids' dresses. That is, if Santana is willing to let it happen. The fact that she could even think of this as potentially fun? Well.  
  
She feels like a five year old trying to work out who it's a good idea to play tag with in the playground. Maybe Jake has some advice on the matter.  
  
She shrugs again at Mike's look. "Shut up."  
…  
  
Their seats are incredibly good, only a handful of rows from the front, and even though she's taken Jake to see a couple of old movies here before she's never really appreciated how nice this place is. That itch of curiosity is back again, and it has her wondering how Rachel ended up with this gig, and why.  
  
Jake struts behind the usher, his chest puffing up the closer they're led to the front.  
  
They settle into their seats, and it's not long before Jake's swinging his feet back and forth as he looks around, his head swivelling in every direction, until he's sitting on his knees in his seat so he can take everything in.  
  
"Rachel said she sings some songs she thinks I'll like," he says after a moment, settling back into his seat. "I hope they're from the Lion King."  
  
At Jake's words, a woman seated in front of them turns around. "You know Rachel Berry?" she asks, directing her question at Santana.  
  
"She's _my_ friend," Jake answers, and Santana snickers a little at the emphasis.  
  
"Ah," the woman says, the smile on her face as fake as her lips. She turns back around, with a muttered "how nice for you."  
  
Jake grabs at Santana's elbow where it's propped on the armrest between them. "It is nice for me," he says, his tone only a little questioning.  
  
"It is, J-man," she says easily, resisting the urge to ruffle his hair.  
  
It isn't long before the lights dim, and Jake squirms around until he gives in and sit on his legs so he's a little bit taller. She eyes the people behind them, but Jake doesn't seem to be in anyone's way so she turns back as people start to clap, and then Rachel's on stage and her hand settles on Jake's leg to keep him from sitting up on his knees in his excitement.  
  
She's not five years old, so she simply straightens up a bit and bites her tongue.  
  
Black and slinky looks _really_ good on Rachel.  
  
"Hello," Rachel says when she reaches the mic, her hand lifting in a tiny wave that should be ridiculous coming from a grown woman.  
  
The audience settles down, just enough that when Mike breathes out, "Wow," she catches it and nods a little in agreement.  
  
"Thank you for being here. How is everyone this evening?" Rachel asks as she adjusts her mic stand. Everyone claps, and she can see Rachel settle her ear piece and say something to the band before turning back to the audience while the band quietly begins to play.  
  
"So I have a special friend in the audience tonight," Rachel says, lifting her hand to shield her eyes from the spotlight and scanning the crowd. "And I just wanted to say hi to him first, and that I hope he likes this first song."  
  
And then the band shifts into the opening notes of 'Can You Feel the Love Tonight', and Santana can't move her hand fast enough to cover Jake's mouth before he calls out, "I do like this song, Rachel!"  
  
Rachel cracks up laughing -- even when she turns her head away from the mic, Santana can hear if from her seat -- and the audience buzzes in amusement.  
  
"I'm glad, Jake," Rachel says into the mic, squinting in their direction. Santana's not sure she can actually see them, but Jake waves anyway.  
  
Whatever feeling of total parental mortification she manages to muster up doesn't last long in the face of everyone around her forgetting all about it the second Rachel opens her mouth to sing.  
  
…  
  
  
They could have been sitting there for hours or seconds when Jake starts to squirm around.  
  
It's not strictly Broadway, but it's close, and Rachel's obviously chosen every song on her setlist because it means something to her, whether or not the reason is also obvious. Some songs are so obvious she can't help but roll her eyes at how some things will never change; some Santana has never heard before, but — and maybe Rachel's an infinitely better actress now than she was in high school — each song seems more personal than the last.  
  
When Rachel sings 'I'd be the first one to agree, that I'm preoccupied with me' Santana starts to squirm herself.  
  
"Mommy," Jake whispers loudly, "I have to pee."  
  
She's scooping up her clutch when Mike leans forward and whispers, "You want me to take him?" but she shakes her head. She could use a bathroom break, too.  
  
"You having fun?" she asks Jake as they make their way through the lobby.  
  
"Yep," he says before coming to a stop outside the bathroom she's lead them to. "I didn't like that song, though."  
  
"Why not?" she asks, holding the door open for him.  
  
He dashes into a stall, not bothering to even push the door closed behind him. "I dunno," he says loudly. "Rachel was sad."  
  
"She's just singing a sad song, baby, she's not actually sad." And she almost believes herself.  
  
When they slip back into their seats, Rachel's singing a chirpy rendition of 'Being Alive'.  
  
…  
  
By the time everyone in the theater is standing and clapping, Jake up on his seat so he can still see, Santana wonders what she thinks she's been seeing all these months whenever she looked at Rachel.  
  
It's like enough of the picture has been revealed, and she finally feels like she can match the Rachel on stage with the girl she remembers from high school. _That's_ the girl obsessed with pouring all her emotions out on stage, still inside Rachel but definitely not let out nearly as often as she once was. Santana doesn't want to strangle that girl now, which is a bit different.  
  
She's not sure what to do with that, but she tucks her clutch more firmly under her arm and claps a little harder.  
  
…  
  
They're easing their way through the crowded lobby when someone grabs Santana's arm.  
  
"Hey—" she starts, before she sees that it's Cassandra. "Oh. It's you."  
  
"Rachel wanted me to catch you before you left," Cassandra says, this time having the courtesy to give her full attention to the task, but still looking entirely disinterested. Seriously, how is _this_ Rachel's assistant?  
  
"Okay," Santana says, pulling her wrist from Cassandra's grip. "And why is that?"  
  
"She wanted me to ask if you'd meet her for drinks. She won't be long; there's a bar on the rooftop of the place across the street."  
  
"Oh," she says, eyes darting to Mike for a second as they're jostled by people moving around them. "What about— No. Jake can't come to a bar."  
  
"Yes I can," Jake says, like saying it makes it true, at the same time Cassandra says, "It's not that sort of bar. Think a little classier. If the kid can behave, it won't be a problem; Rachel goes up there after every show."  
  
"He can behave," Santana says shortly, and Cassandra nods in response.  
  
"Good; I'll let Rachel know," she says before turning on her heel and disappearing into the crowd.  
  
"Uh," is all Santana can manage.  
  
Mike bewilderedly stares after Cassandra's departing form. "I think we kind of have to go now."  
  
…  
  
As Mike's lifting Jake up into one of the high seats at the bar, Santana can't help but wonder why Rachel comes here of all places.  
  
It's not at all a place to be casually sociable with strangers. There are high-backed booths and indoor plants scattered about and the whole places feels like you'd come here to have a secret affair, or buy some very high quality cocaine. It feels… private, and she supposes that in itself might be the answer to her question.  
  
"Do you want something to drink?" Mike asks, and then orders the dirty martini she asks for just because it seems like the thing to drink here.  
  
The bartender's amused by Jake, and he makes Jake what amounts to a rainbow-colored Sprite in a pina colada glass.  
  
"This is awesome," Jake breathes, chin resting on the bar as he watches the coloring settle into layers.  
  
"He is never going to sleep," Santana sighs, mostly to herself because Mike's talking to the bartender about the game they missed.  
  
She's not really listening, having caught the important part about how they won, which is how she notices the doorman helping Rachel with her coat. Whatever he's saying to Rachel is making her laugh, her hand resting on the guy's arm for a moment.  
  
Maybe that's why Rachel comes here every night, is the thought that's distracting her until Rachel turns around from waving at the guy as she moves away, and then it's like she can't even form a coherent thought because--  
  
Rachel's face just sort of falls. It's only for a moment, with just a flicker of a quiver, but it's long enough for Santana to realize Rachel isn't looking at her. She's looking at Mike.  
  
The sudden panic that wells up in her chest is unlike anything else (except the same moment before strangers, teachers, her mother realize how very disappointing she is), holding her frozen in her spot long enough to watch as every feeling is wiped from Rachel's face and replaced with a smile so convincing Santana would believe it had she not seen it wrestled into place.  
  
"Mike!" Rachel cries as she walks towards them, like she didn't just seem like she'd been completely blindsided. Mike steps back from the bar and around the seat Jake's climbing down from, coming forward and letting Rachel hug him fiercely.  
  
Santana tries to catch Rachel's eye over his shoulder, but it feels deliberate when Rachel breaks off and leans down to talk to Jake.  
  
…  
  
Rachel leads them all to what is apparently her usual booth, Mike following behind them with their drinks, and they have an incredibly polite conversation about nothing.  
  
Really, there's no other way to describe the exchange of pleasantries, Rachel thanking them for coming and Santana thanking Rachel for the invite, as anything besides banally polite and about five steps back from the almost-friendly tone of their last conversation.  
  
"Well I'm glad you enjoyed it," Rachel says as they sit, then turns to Mike and Jake and it's like a switch has been thrown back on again.  
  
She watches the three of them talk, and tries not to think about she used to want to strangle Rachel as she tucks her hands under her legs to stop the tremble she can't quite get under control, because why on earth did she think Rachel would be any different from everyone else.  
  
…  
  
She lies in bed later on, feet aching from those stupid Mary Janes, alternating between shaking her covers into submission and wondering who the fuck Rachel thinks she is to have any opinion about her life at all.  
  
But as she stares at the ceiling, stomach churning, she can't help but think that whatever else this is, it's going to bite Jake in the ass.


	12. Chapter 2, Part 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so. let's never be apart that long again. a million and infinity thanks to han for her handholding.

And that churning in her gut? Totally fucking justified.

…

She knows, because when she gets into work on Tuesday there's a cancellation message that no one's touched from Cassandra saying Rachel needs to this and that and whatthefuckever.

It festers inside her, all the same old gut-wrenching convictions now with a shiny new coat of paint, as if this is a new kind of hurt.

For about half a second she thinks of calling Rachel—because hey, she has her number now—and telling her to fuck off before Rachel has a chance to do it herself, but she doesn't because that's the kind of thing you do when you want to see if you're wrong.

And she knows she's not wrong.

…

She knows, because as she rounds the corner the next day and catches Rachel walking out of the cafe, she _knows_ Rachel sees her and, without so much as flinching, very deliberately turns to walk in the other direction.

(It makes her think of her mother, even though she never actually saw her mother's reaction to the mess her life had become; it's like the visual equivalent of every time her calls went to voice mail a bit too quickly. So she's mad at Rachel for making her think of her mother, on top of all this other fucked up, judgemental crap she thought she was done having in her life.)

Fuck that, and fuck Rachel. She does not get to do this. It's not just Santana that gets hurt here, and that's the only thing that matters. In a battle between her own sense of self-preservation and Jake's happiness, Jake wins hands down every time.

"Hey!" Santana calls out, blind rage driving her down the sidewalk, and Rachel stutter-steps before she turns around.

Santana's going to need to revise her assessment that Rachel's a better actor now, because all she gets is a "Oh. Santana," and Rachel blinking at her stupidly, while the people milling around them adjust their path until there's an island of sidewalk with them alone in the middle.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" she demands, voice rising further and causing Rachel to rock back on her feet. She's in flats, and Rachel isn't, and she wishes it were the other way around. She wishes Rachel had kept walking, refused to turn around, something, _anything_ , that would stop this bull in a china shop feeling. She wishes--

(This isn't the first time Newbury Street has played witness to Santana's temper.

The highlight—or lowlight, depending on who you ask—was the time the husband of one of her favorite old ladies had, in the course of a trim, insinuated she 1. Couldn't raise a child, 2. Couldn't possibly be a lesbian, and 3. Could have herself taken care of for life in exchange for fellating his occasionally working johnson. It's a hazard to the universe that her job involves very sharp blades.

Even now she's angrier that she lost the wife as a client than the fact that the police were called.)

"You don't get to do this to my kid," she says, taking a step forward into the only space left between them.

The wind's picking up, blowing through the buffer between them and the rest of humanity streaming by, and Rachel grabs at the edge of her stupid, billowy cardigan, jerking it around herself, arms tight across her chest. "I beg your pardon." She actually sounds offended, as if Santana's the one in the wrong here.

Rachel doesn't offer up some platitude about not having seen her. In fact she doesn't say anything at all. She doesn't even have the good grace to look like she doesn't know what Santana's talking about, so apparently they're going to have this out right now.

"I don't know what your problem is—" lies, complete and utter lies, but she just does _not_ want to hear the truth coming from Rachel's mouth, "—but what did you think you were going to do, just up and disappear? After you promised Jake you'd help him out?"

"I wouldn't have—"

"Shut up! You would too, and you know it." Her hands clench into fists at her sides. "You wouldn't even hesitate to just leave."

It's a low blow, and she knows it. She knows enough about Rachel's departure from Lima to know exactly where her soft spots probably are, and how to jam her booted toe into them. They are, after all, in exactly the same places as her own bruises that have refused to fade entirely.

"I thought we had this conversation already," she continues, fingers cracking, wrapped inside her palm. "I thought you understood. But you obviously don't give a shit, so why did you even offer? That's not how kids work, Rachel! You don't get to be selfish with them!"

(It's a lesson that she had exactly fourteen seconds to learn: the time it took for them to clear Jake's airways and place him in her arms.)

"Santana, please, we're in the middle of the street," Rachel says, her voice strained but at a civilized level, a marked difference to the noise Santana is making right there on the sidewalk.

The restraint tears something loose inside Santana.

"I'm sorry, is this embarrassing you?" Her hand shoots out, waving at the air between them. "Is it going to look bad if someone sees and realizes you're the great _Rachel Berry_ arguing with some hairdresser on the street? Well gee, forgive me if I don't bend over backwards to control myself."

At this point she's not sure she could even if she tried. There's this thing itching at the back of her neck, driving her forward and refusing to let her stop; something in her that's fighting against a well-honed instinct of flight in favor of a fight. Though what she's fighting for, exactly, she doesn't really know. She's fought plenty of battles for Jake in the past, but this feels bigger and meaner and it's coming from somewhere very different, and it makes her arms shake at her sides.

Rachel doesn't do anything as Santana unloads, and it's like they're having two completely different conversations.

"This was a mistake." Rachel takes a step back, her neck twisting to look away, even as her feet seem unable to take her any further. "I wouldn't have, but— this was a mistake."

"You know you've said that before," Santana spits. "I'm sorry I'm just too disappointing for you to deal with, but you should have thought of that before you offered to help Jake." It comes out choked, other words running up behind them and trying to escape.

"I never should have offered, you obviously don't wa—"

"Oh, _excuse_ me." Because there it is, the slow backing away; much faster than usual. Whatever Santana wants—wanted, and she'd laugh in her own face for her thoughts of _friendship_ the other night—she can see Rachel regrets having anything to do with her. "My mistake. _You're_ obviously too important now to keep your promises. I don't know why I ever thought letting you anywhere near Jake was a good idea, when it's pretty damn clear you were just doing it out of pity!"

Rachel's still not looking at her, desperately glancing over her shoulder to see if anyone's looking in their direction, but at Santana's words she snaps back towards her. "Santana, what on earth gave you the impression that I pitied you?"

Her voice quivers in a way that makes Santana think, a solid thought that she grabs onto, that there's actual upset being held back behind the tears Rachel reaches up to wipe away with her sleeve.

"You know, never mind, because whatever it was, you're wrong," Rachel continues, emphatic. "I didn't offer to help Jake out of _anything_ besides my own desire to do so. My god, you must actually hate me, to think so little of me!" Rachel laughs, this choked little sound like she's drowning. "But obviously you must, if you didn't even tell me you were with Mike."

This doesn't make any sense, and whatever she was going to say next stops at the back of her throat.

 _Rachel's_ upset with _her_ , even though she has all the right to be and Rachel has none. 

Her fingers uncurl, and it hurts more than when they were twisted into a fist, but the words sink in and it falls into place. Rachel's actually upset with her, has been _hurt_ by her, and she blinks dumbly for a moment at the sight of Rachel standing there, huddled into herself against the wind and Santana's words. This is all wrong and backwards and confusing, and the anger drains away, leaving her shivering in the wind, too.

It's not disappointment that she's been seeing on Rachel's face; at least not in Santana herself.

(She loves being right, but there are things she would do anything to be wrong about. Boxes snapped shut and two lines instead of one, obviously, but that's finite. She's never stopped wanting to be wrong about people.)

She turns away without going anywhere, fingers threading together to squeeze the ache out. She was wrong and it makes her dizzy. Of all the people--

"I mean, honestly," Rachel continues as Santana stands there in her realization, "I know we weren't very close friends in high school, but he's not a complete stranger."

"I'm not _with_ Mike," she breathes, latching onto something she can solidly refute and forcing the words out. She looks back at Rachel like she's never seen her before. "Oh my god, Rachel, I'm still--you were there in high school--I'm still _gay_ , Rachel. Brittany didn't completely ruin that."

It feels so strange to laugh as she says it, even if it's with a jagged edge of hysteria and not actual amusement. It's all just too much, and she leans against the fence beside them, weak from the release.

"But Mike--"

"He's Jake's father."

"Then my point remains!" Rachel actually stamps her foot, the impact shaking a couple more tears free to track down Rachel's cheek, and this might actually be the most ridiculous conversation of her entire life.

"I thought you _knew_ that! Not that we were together, because we're _not_ , but I thought you—you know about Jake, why wouldn't you know, I don't know—" She really doesn't know, and she rubs her eyes tiredly. "I figured you did, and just..."

"Santana, who exactly would I have found this out from?" Rachel settles against the fence beside her, still wiping at her face. "My ex-husband? My ex-huband's best friend?"

And that's just it, isn't it? They've been working off old cheat-sheets, and failing miserably because of it.

"I thought we were, I don't know, friends," Rachel says, reaching the same conclusion as Santana. "But we're not."

She closes her eyes against the utterly _sad_ look on Rachel's face, but it doesn't change the fact that all she is to Rachel is someone to cut her hair.

"Rachel, you can't _buy_ friendship," she sighs. "And that's all this is. You tipped me, for god sake, like a fucking charity case." And she sounds like a fucking charity case, but she's exhausted and the words roll off her tongue without her permission. There's a tiny ledge at the bottom of the fence they're leaning on, and she slides down to sit on it, arms wrapping around her knees.

Rachel sits down, too, and sets her purse at her feet. "That wasn't why I did it."

Santana waits, but Rachel doesn't add anything further, so she rolls her eyes towards Rachel and says, "So why did you?"

"I haven't seen anyone since I left Lima. _Anyone_." She looks at Santana, and there's a commiserating note that hits Santana where it hurts. "It sounds so juvenile now, but I was showing off."

She doesn't know what to say to that, so Santana just nods. Someone almost steps on her foot, and it's only then that she thinks this might be weird, the two of them sitting on the sidewalk like a couple of teenagers.

"This is awkward, isn't it." It's not a question, but Santana nods anyway. "What do you want from me, Santana?"

"I— I don't know." It would be easier if she did. She watches the shoes of the people walking by them. "Nothing, I guess."

It's only a guess.

Out of the corner of her eye she can see Rachel gather up her purse, and herself, and rise to her feet, the heels not giving her any trouble but it seems like a struggle anyway. "Okay then."

There's the sound of grit between the sidewalk and the sole of Rachel's shoe as it turns away, and it sets Santana's teeth on edge.

"Who ever said I hated you?" She tears her eyes away from Rachel's shoes to look up at her looking down at Santana. "Rachel, I don't let people I hate near my kid." 

Rachel lets out this sound that could be a laugh but probably isn't, draws in a breath and sits back down.

It's only then that she notices Rachel looks like shit, and not just from the tears. Her hair's in a knot at the top of her head, but half of it doesn't even reach and it's hanging limply around her neck. It's possibly the least put-together she's seen Rachel and that in itself is kind of upsetting.

"Can you please stop crying?" she says, and Rachel flinches. "I just mean I'm, you know, sorry. That I upset you."

"That's okay," Rachel replies quietly. "I don't think you meant to."

Did she mean to? That's probably something she should have thought about before now, but even in her attempts to deal with Rachel's existence, it had never actually been about Rachel. And that answers her question. Too busy dealing with what it meant to have this reminder of the past in her life, she'd forgotten to pay much attention to Rachel at all. Mostly.

"I didn't," she says, because she wants Rachel to know. "It was never about you." It sounds awful, but Rachel nods like she gets it. Maybe she does. "What do we do now?"

It feels like a cop out to ask after she was the one to call Rachel back, but there's only so much she can do without her head exploding. Besides, Rachel used to have _some_ good ideas back in the day.

"I think we need a do-over," Rachel says, turning to meet Santana's eye and her knee knocking against Santana's.

Her eyes flicker down and could this possibly be any more high school awkward? "A what?"

"We need to start again." Rachel looks her right in the eye, straightening now that they're apparently moving forward. "You weren't very nice to me that first day."

Santana wants to be offended, even though Rachel says it with a smile, but god, she really, really wasn't, and she drops her head against her knees with a groan. "It might actually be easier if we just pretend we don't know each other at all."

A soft laugh escapes from Rachel. "I'm not sure I can do that. If I didn't know you at all, I probably wouldn't be sitting here."

There's an implication there that warms her, and she lifts her head back up. "Can I pencil you back in for Saturday?"

"No." Oh. Off the look Santana gives her she explains, "I think we should-- okay, obviously I need my hair done, but I think that should just be that. Does that make sense?"

"Not even a little bit." But she stays in her place, even though that sounded like rejection.

"Even if I'm not your friend, I am Jake's."

Something about the way Rachel says it makes Santana smile against her will, even though, again, this is sounding a hell of a lot like rejection. "Okay?"

"And I took it to heart, what you said last time." Rachel's eyes dart away and she bites at her lip before continuing. "But I need to protect myself, too, you know? So what I think is--" she looks back at Santana, "--you, or Mike, should bring him over to the place I'm staying, Monday afternoons, so I can teach him. I promised him I would, and it shouldn't be tied up to anything else."

"That sounds okay." And kind of not at all okay, so she doesn't stop herself from asking, "what about us?" to round out all the pathetic teenage, high school-ness of the morning.

Rachel leans back against the fence, eyes closed and face tilted up to the overcast sky. "You know what I've decided?"

She has no fucking clue, but she settles for, "What?"

"I like my new haircut," Rachel answers, a smile tugging at her lips again.

Santana chokes on a laugh, because she wouldn't tell a single person on this planet that she's responsible for Rachel's hair with the way it looks right now, and Rachel's eyes flutter open to look at her again. But... "We should have coffee."

Rachel stands again, and Santana drags herself to her feet as well. She has no idea how long they've been out there, but she's probably late for work. She can't bring herself to care all that much.

"I don't drink coffee," Rachel says, her smile turning cute, and Santana rolls her eyes at that.

"Tea, coffee, whatever. God, you're so...." But she doesn't know how to finish that.

"I think I can do tea, coffee, whatever." Rachel pulls out her phone and taps at the screen. "I'll get Cassandra to rebook my hair appointment for the end of the week if it's possible. And Mondays are actually okay for Jake, right?" Santana nods, watching Rachel make plans. "Are you free on Tuesday morning?"

She has no idea. "Yeah."

When she's done, Rachel puts her phone away, and they stand there looking at each other again.

"Okay."

"Okay, then." Rachel fidgets with the strap on her purse, and Santana wishes she had something to do with her own hands besides crack her still-aching knuckles. "So I'll see you... later."

Santana's only taken a couple of steps in the direction of the salon when Rachel calls her back.

"I'm Rachel, by the way," she says, and then offers her hand. "I used to live in Lima."

Santana stares at it, this resignation that, right now, they're nothing to each other but a reminder of things they'd both probably rather not remember. But if that were true, if that's all it was, she wouldn't be raising her own hand, palm sliding against Rachel's until they've met in the middle, and saying, "Funny, I used to live there, too. Santana Lopez."

Rachel's fingers curl a little, just as her lips do the same. "It's nice to meet you."


	13. Chapter 2, Part 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the end of chapter 2. after this we'll have a little interlude set 6-7 years ago.

As a creature of habit, it's endlessly annoying that she has to yell at everyone to get out of the bathroom at the back of the salon every Friday afternoon.

(Mike had come home from classes one Monday when Jake was about a month old, and dropped a greasy bag of Mr. Bartley's on the coffee table next to where her feet were propped up.

"Next time just tell me, please, and we can avoid the unpleasantness of last Monday."

She pretty much wanted to claw his face off, because it was fucking embarrassing that she'd had a meltdown over a lack of cheeseburger in her day, but Jake was nestled along the length of her thighs making stupid faces that she'd taken like a thousand photos of with her phone, so she was pretty much stuck glaring at Mike from her place on the couch.

"Can you, um." She gestured at the bag. "I can't reach."

Mike handed her the bag in exchange for Jake, and she watched them play peek-a-boo on the floor while she devoured a bacon double cheeseburger.

Part of the reason they still have dinner together on Monday nights as often as possible, she suspects, is that Mike lives with the fear of that night in his heart. And he should, because seriously: don't mess with her cheeseburgers.)

It's only early, but there's always a dead slot between normal clients and the Friday night crowd, and Santana prefers to get dressed in peace rather than the stink of seven other women who treat the bathroom like a locker room. She loves Friday nights, with her own little party to oversee, but she needs a timeout before things get crazy, and her minions should know this by now.

No timeouts tonight, though, because the dead slot has become Rachel's slot, and she sighs at her reflection as she messes with her hair.

She doesn't understand her unwillingness to let this be, to go back to pretending her existence began in freshman year of college (six years, almost to the day). But then she hasn't understood for months—why now, why Rachel—so she doesn't give it much thought. It's enough that this feels like the first time in forever (seven years, almost to the day) that she's not trying to wrestle the parts of her life into a place they don't want to be.

There's a lack of tension in her body that makes her feel overwrought and enervated all at once, like she wants to run for miles but can barely move her feet.

"You cut hair ten times a day," she tells herself as she coats her eyelashes with mascara. "Stop being weird."

A voice behind her says, "Are you talking to yourself?" and she startles so violently she stabs herself in the eye with the wand.

"Fuck!" She drops the wand to clutch at her face, spinning around to glare with her one good eye at Stacey where she's lounging against the doorjamb. "What are you, a Child of the Corn?"

Stacey only snickers, but she pushes away from the doorway and comes over to stand in front of her. "Get out of the way," she says, peeling Santana's hand away from her face to see the damage. "God, you're hopeless. Sit up there."

She hops up onto the counter, tries not to flinch as Stacey runs a cotton pad soaked in the smell of Lancome across her eye before manhandling Santana's face as she reapplies her eyeliner.

There's a brush covered in eyeshadow being waved in front of her face, and she closes her eyes without protest. Stacey's awesome at this, so who's she to say no. "So what's your damage, Heather?"

She's about to deny she has any damage, thanks very much, when Stacey cuts her off. "Don't even. You've been fussing around the place all day. It's driving me nuts."

The hands on her face disappear and she blinks her eyes open to Stacey's don't-bullshit-me face.

(It's a face that Stacey's never used on her for anything she didn't want to share in the first place.

The first time involved some seriously ugly crying about being utterly terrified of pushing a _baby_ out of her body. The most recent was about how Santana had paid the stupid girl she'd had to fire for being as good at washing hair as Jake is at doing taxes up until the end of the week.

It's a face for all occasions, really.)

"It's just," she starts, sliding from the counter and taking up the mascara again. "You know Rachel, right?" Obviously Stacey does. "We went to high school together."

"Is there a part of this story I don't already know?"

"Yeah, it's the part where I smack you in the mouth," Santana says blandly, eyes fixed on her own reflection. "You know I don't go back to my hometown."

There's a deck chair in the corner that Stacey settles into with a hum of acknowledgement.

She watches the mascara wand drag across her eyelashes for a moment. "Rachel's a part of all that," she eventually says, and then holds up her free hand. "The before stuff, not the stuff with my parents and Jake."

"Ah, the mysterious youth." There's a note of humor in Stacey's tone, but Santana's grateful for it.

"This is sounding worse than it is," Santana sighs, turning away from the mirror. "She wasn't my girlfriend or anything, if that's what you're thinking. She was just there and that's bad enough."

"But she's here now," Stacey shrugs, studying Santana. "You seem to be dealing."

"It just doesn't matter anymore." It's startling to believe that's actually true now. "She seems cool now. She might even have been back then."

"Cool."

And that's the end of the conversation. Stacey stands and slaps her ass as they head back to the front, and Santana's laughing as she rubs at the sting when she looks up to find Rachel already there, watching her rub her ass.

She forces down the flash of embarrassment as she makes her way over, ignoring Rachel's amused smirk. 

"I'm not dating her either, okay."

"I didn't say anything!" Rachel rolls her eyes, but it's at herself more than anything.

…

The way her fingers sink into Rachel's hair is automatic, and she's combed them halfway through the length when the entire situation rushes up to meet her feet and she pulls her hands away as if Rachel's hair is made of fire.

"This is weird," she says, meeting Rachel's eyes in the mirror.

"We should have had coffee first." Rachel watches her stand there for a moment. "I want to— god, I just want to talk to you, but—" she looks around, "—here is really not the place."

Santana glances at the clock, and even though it's going to piss everyone off, there are no other clients here to stop her from going around the back and killing the music and telling everyone to get out until seven.

It's not the best solution, and the face Stacey gives her as she heads out last tells her bad things are coming her way for this, but it's the only power she has over her little world right now and she's going to make the most of it.

"You didn't have to do that," Rachel says in the silence, tucking her hair behind her ears.

"I know." She comes back over, handing Rachel a towel. "Let's go."

…

It's easier with something to do, which is ironic considering she used 'something to do' as a way to get around this for so long.

Rachel's shuffling back in her seat, head not even back against the basin when she asks, "So Mike Chang huh?"

"He's single, if that's what you're asking." She knows it's not, but it doesn't come out as a joke. "Sorry," she sighs, and Rachel simply blinks up at her. "Yes, Mike Chang. Can we not talk about that, though?"

"We can talk about whatever you like," Rachel says, voice soft in a way that makes Santana squirm.

She runs the water until it's the right temperature, soaking Rachel's hair without saying anything. The water shutting off leaves them in silence again, and Rachel's lying there with her eyes closed again, like the first time she sat in this chair.

There's no pulse of anxiety surging through her this time, just that urge to run with no energy to do so.

"Actually," she says, her words feeling loud. "I want to hear what you've been doing."

…

Rachel is:

Divorced.

(A one sentence statement that they're both happy to leave behind.)

Currently between Broadway projects but not indefinitely.

(The way Rachel's face lights up as she talks about the script—book, Santana thinks she calls it—for her next show is insane, and Santana grins down at where Rachel still has her eyes closed, head tipped back against the basin.)

Slowly working on an album with a producer who lives in Boston.

(She's surprised Rachel's still writing her own material, but she doesn't ask about it…)

Missing New York terribly.

(Rachel laughs at the way Santana rolls her eyes at that, slapping at her arm as they move back over to Santana's work station.)

Rachel is not: 

Currently seeing anyone.

(Duly noted, though the way she says it is kind of weird.)

Succeeding at producing any material for an album that she likes. At all.

(…this is why she doesn't ask about it.)

Hating Boston as much as she thought she would.

…

Rachel's monologue comes to a natural conclusion as Santana's evening up the sides of her hair, hand resting against Rachel's temple and her focus switching from where she ought to be watching what she's doing to Rachel's eyes watching her.

"Thanks for listening," Rachel whispers, worrying at her lip for a moment.

The fact that Rachel's fighting a pleased look over the simple fact that Santana paid attention this time, that it's so _obvious_ that she did and that it must have been equally obvious when she didn't, makes her want to claw her own face off.

Santana nods tightly, and finishes up what she's doing.

"Hey," Rachel says, catching her wrist. "Your turn on Tuesday."

She nods again, not trusting her voice to be as sincere as she feels about that.

…

The bristles of the brush she's holding prick against her palm and she steps back from where she's finished brushing flecks of hair off Rachel's neck.

"I wasn't just saying that the other day." Rachel leans forward in her seat, running her finger along the blunt edge of her hair as she peers at the mirror, before her eyes track up to meet Santana's. "I really do like this."

The haircut does look good. Is that narcissistic to say so, since she's the one that cut it? Would that be weird even if it wasn't?

She decides it's not, because there's nothing weird about telling people they look good when it's just the truth. She's about to say so, but before she gets a chance there are people filing back in and the place is flooded with so much noise it makes it hard to think. She settles for a nod of agreement, cursing herself for being so silent earlier, and tossing the towel in her hand towards the laundry bag with a huff of annoyance.

"I'll see you on Monday," Rachel shouts over the noise, slipping her wallet back into her purse after they've sorted out her bill, watching Santana from the other side of the front desk.

It takes Santana's brain at least five seconds to work out what Rachel's talking about, and then she remembers, "Jake's lesson. Right."

Rachel looks as disoriented as Santana feels, going from the peaceful bubble of Rachel's voice and the sound of blades snipping closed to the utter chaos that now surrounds them. "Um, okay. Have a good evening."

It's easier to just wave as Rachel slips out the door, "You, too," getting lost in the noise.

…

Some girl is getting a faceful of hairspray and Santana's not feeling at all sorry about it when she realizes she has a problem, and she pauses to fish her phone out of her back pocket.

_I have no idea where you're staying to bring Jake on Monday._

It's nearly closing, and she doesn't expect a reply as quickly as it appears on the screen. She gives the girl one last spray and sends her off with Julia, then slips into the office to squint at the address Rachel's texted back.

Rachel's show would only just have finished and, well, it's not like Santana has any idea what Rachel usually does, besides going to that bar they'd all gone to that night. The thought of Rachel sitting there on her own right now's kind of depressing, and she shakes the thought away. She has no idea what Rachel's up to right now.

_This is literally around the corner from here._

She sinks back into the couch, kicking her legs over the arm and watching the screen indicate Rachel's typing out a reply.

_Why did you think I'm always around?_

The snort escapes without her permission, and she stares at the crack in the ceiling above her, long enough that the screen on her phone goes dim, and then off completely.

The phone vibrates in her hand and scares the crap out of her.

_Obviously I'm stalking you. :P Have a good night, Santana. See you and Jake on Monday. x R._

It's because she's trying to think of a reply—and not that she wants to make it seem like she didn't ignore Rachel's question—that she gets up from the couch and gathers her things to head out, ducking past Stacey, before she unlocks her phone, tapping out a message as she makes her way along Newbury Street and around the corner towards home.

_I had a good night already. See you Monday._

…

"Where are we going?"

Somewhere in the last week Jake's become obsessed with yo-yos, but he's going to walk into traffic, or another person, or fall down and break his arm, so she braces herself and takes the damn thing from him.

(Two weeks ago it was marbles. A month ago it was baseball cards, and thank god that only lasted a week because pretending they were interesting was not going to last much longer than it that.)

"Stop it," she says over the sound of his whining, shoving the yo-yo into her bag. "If you don't stop it, we won't go and see Rachel."

The whining stops immediately. "We're going to see Rachel?"

"It depends. Are you done making that noise that you know I don't like?"

She doesn't even care that it's child bribery, not when Jake swears he'll stop and bounces ahead of her along the sidewalk, his sneakers blindingly white in the sunshine.

"Does Rachel live here?" Jake asks as they stop outside one of the old brownstones, and Santana perches her sunglasses on top of her head, frowning up at the building for a moment.

"Okay," she says, crouching down beside Jake. "Rachel has invited you to come to her house so she can teach you how to sing." He makes a break for the front door immediately, but she's already got her hand around his wrist and she pulls him back. "Wait a second, okay."

Jake's face screws up as he stands there waiting for her to say something else. "What?"

"Just…" But she doesn't really have anything to say. "Make sure you pay attention," she finishes dumbly. As if Jake's ever had any problems paying attention to Rachel. "Go ring the doorbell."

Jake dashes up the steps, and he has to jump to reach it but he slaps at the doorbell, and then follows it up with a knock at the door.

Rachel's head pokes around the door, her smile as blinding as Jake's sneakers when she spots him. "Who is this handsome gentleman caller at my door?"

"Did you forget me?" Jake asks, and Rachel laughs as she pulls the door open.

"Of course not," she says, and nods a greeting at Santana. "How could I?"

…

The place is completely devoid of personality, but kneeling in the middle of the living room, hair pulled back and wearing a pair of yoga pants that might be illegal in some states, Rachel manages to look like she's at home, in a Real Housewives of Mars kind of way.

"You didn't decorate this place, did you?" she asks, taking in the white _everything_ from her place on the white, white couch.

The question makes Rachel chuckle. "Nope. I don't even own any of this, it came fully furnished. I didn't think I'd care at the time, but I wish I hadn't left picking a place to Cassandra."

Santana bites her tongue to keep from commenting, and Rachel turns her attention back to Jake.

Watching them, she thinks she gets why Jake likes her so much.

They start with scales, and when Jake starts singing 'Do-Re-Mi' to show Rachel that he knows the sounds already, the charmed look on Rachel's face makes Santana snicker, even as she knows exactly how Rachel feels. The fact that Rachel finishes the song with him is something else entirely, and Jake leans against her as he laughs hysterically.

When Jake calms down, she starts talking to him about the way he moves his mouth, letting him touch her face so he can feel what she means and then helping him do the same.

Rachel's completely focused on him, and making sure he understands what she's explaining, that he's practically basking in the attention.

It's the same attention she's been paying all along, and Santana thinks she gets it now.

…

"Next week we'll do something harder," Rachel says, as they're getting ready to leave, "but if you practice it'll be as easy as today was. And it was easy because you're very good already."

Rachel should be a teacher, she's so good at this.

Jake hops down the front steps with a wave, and Santana pauses at the top, taking in Rachel standing in the doorway.

"Thank you for this," doesn't seem like enough for how happy it's making her kid, but it's all she's got at the moment.

"It's my pleasure," Rachel replies, and Santana actually believes that.

"See you tomorrow," Santana says as she heads down the steps, and Rachel tosses out this little wave that, again, should be ridiculous coming from a grown woman but just… isn't.

…

There's nothing to do at work, and somehow that means sitting up the front being harassed by Stacey until she blurts out, "we're trying to be friends okay. And she's good with Jake."

If she'd held out thirty seconds longer, she thinks as she looks at her watch, and it would have been fine. "I have to go," she huffs, heading for the door.

"Right," Stacey yells. "Enjoy your date."

Santana opens her mouth to tell Stacey exactly what level of hell she can go to, but her phone starts vibrating in her hand, the _Sponge Bob Square Pants_ theme song making Stacey snort. She settles for flipping Stacey off as she swipes the phone unlocked, the unidentified number explaining the mostly unheard default ringtone.

(Jake chooses most of her ringtones, and changes the default regularly, although Mike's _Gumby_ ringtone is mostly her doing. She should get him to pick something for Rachel.)

"Hello?" she says into the phone, tossing a wave at Stacey as she pulls open the door and heads outside.

There's silence from a long moment, and she's about to check there's a connection when a voice on the other end says, "Santana?"

She knows who it is. She'd know who it is if a thousand years had passed, but that doesn't stop her from asking anyway. "Mom?"

"Yeah, Santana, it's me."

She feels like she's going to throw up, and she finds herself sinking down to sit on the ledge, much like she did with Rachel only a few days ago. "Mom, what's wrong?"

Because there's nothing she can think of that would have her mother calling after so long.

"Mami, is it abuela?"

It's the first thing that comes to mind, with the horrible thought that they'll never fix things now. As if that hasn't been true since she was seventeen.

"It's your Papi, Santana. He—" And god, she knows what her mom's about to say and a sob chokes her throat before she even finishes. "—Santana he died. You have to come home, Santana."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so! i would love to hear how everyone's travelling with the story at this point, especially going into the interlude which should fill in most of the backstory gaps :)


	14. and it's only doubts that we're counting [1/3]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the part informally known as "backstory". february-august 2012.

The waiting room smells like death.

Not exactly the thought she wants in a hospital.

But they're not leaving, and Brittany clings to her when they're not alternating trips to the vending machines. She bought gummy worms for Brittany an hour ago, and a packet of pretzels lands in her lap as a kiss lands on her cheek before Brittany drops back onto the neon green vinyl couch beside her, ugly pink dress floating in the air around them.

The colors make her want to vomit. "It looks like a bottle of Pepto Bismol threw up on a leprechaun," she mutters, and closes her eyes against the sight.

They're curled into each other, even though the couch has plenty of room and Quinn's mother is eyeing them like she's praying for their souls. She should be praying for her damn daughter, but Santana's not about to start something with the woman.

In the silence, Brittany tells her stories about how Quinn's going to grow up and have a million more babies and find someone beautiful to marry and grow old with and not die until she's at least a hundred and thirty-seven. Santana thinks that sounds kind of nice, and Brittany kisses her softly when she says so, "me too," whispered against her ear. It doesn't seem right to smile, while Quinn's down the hall possibly-- whatever, but she can't help the feeling growing inside her chest, warming her from within.

It's been growing, steadily, for months now, and she doesn't think she'll ever get used to it.

Her Papi comes to update them as often as he can, but she prefers knowing he's taking care of Quinn rather than bringing them the same useless information every time.

"We're not going home," Santana says when it gets late and he's told them again that things are, "serious, but not _so_ serious."

"You can stay," he says, and he rubs the back of her hand like he always does, before brushing Brittany's cheek affectionately. "You two always take good care of each other."

For the first time all day she wants to cry, and she rubs at her eyes, because that feeling in her chest grows larger, fighting against the weight of everything being completely fucked up.

"I promise, Dr Pez," Brittany says, fingers twisting around Santana's, pulling them away from her face.

…

The night air is cool against her skin, and the heat of Brittany nearby makes her shiver.

It's finally getting warmer, though, and it's only a short walk from Mike's place back to Santana's. They each have a pair of heels dangling from their free hand, and she frowns as a rock jabs at the bottom of her foot.

The party was boring, mostly just glee kids and cheerios, which is still the funniest sight ever, but it's probably been funny to every other loser at school since sophomore year. She just never noticed it from the inside before now.

The party was boring, but… they needed it, badly. They needed to celebrate them all being together, all being alive.

She wiggles her fingers to lock firmly with Brittany's, and pulls her into the silence of the house. Together and alive, and she feels giddy in a way that has nothing to do with the alcohol she drank earlier.

They know all the places to avoid, their entry route well-established, and they make it upstairs and into Santana's bedroom without waking her Mami.

The comforter swallows her as she sinks back onto the bed, and she stretches lazily in the low light painting her room. "Next year's gonna be awesome."

It's something she thinks about a lot now, ever since the accident. The future's rolled out before them like a blank sheet of paper, but each day she fills in patches with all the things she can't wait to do.

A hand drawn brick road, with magic marker bricks.

Brittany loses her shorts, flings her layers of shirts around the room to mix with Santana's clothes already carpeting the floor, and crawls across the bed to straddle Santana's thighs.

"California's going to be awesome."

"Or Boston."

They haven't decided yet. It's another patch to fill in.

"Wherever," Brittany shrugs, trailing her hands up and under Santana's dress, fingers curling to press into the skin they find. "It's going to be awesome."

She sits up, letting Brittany lift her dress over her head to discard into the mess, and presses a kiss to her sternum. "Wherever," she sighs, letting Brittany surround her.

…

It's dumb stuff that makes her feel like, if she doesn't make a conscious effort to hold herself together, she's going to burst.

She's making breakfast for them both--an experiment, because she kind of sucks at this--and Brittany's sitting on the counter even though her Mami's been telling her to get off for at least the last five years--maybe longer, Brittany grew tall enough to hop up there long before Santana did--while she goes on about how her feet are going to turn into leather from all the practice she's been doing with Mike.

The fact that she's interested in a conversation about Brittany's feet is gross, but she's looking at the callous on Brittany's big toe and wincing in sympathy when the eggs she's making start to burn.

"Santana, watch what you're doing!" her Mami yells from where she's reading the paper at the kitchen table, and Brittany reaches over to move the pan from the burner and switch on the overhead fan before Santana's even noticed what's happening.

"Shit." The eggs are totally ruined. "That looks like afterbirth."

"Santana!" her Mami snaps, and she bites her tongue because she doesn't want to ruin the morning by fighting.

"You tried," Brittany says, hopping down from the counter. "But you should have let me do it."

Brittany rinses out the pan and starts a fresh batch of eggs, and when her Mami brings her dishes over she slaps at Santana's arm. "Honestly, Mija, if it weren't for Brittany, I'd be worried about you starving at college."

It's the same feeling from that night at the hospital, growing under the quiet acceptance from everyone around them that she belongs with Brittany as much as Brittany belongs with her, and she leans against the counter, huddled in her own arms, watching as Brittany salvages their breakfast.

…

Brittany gets her letter from Stanford.

It's thick and heavy and suddenly everything is so fucking real there's a moment where she thinks she's going to throw up from happiness, right there in the Pierce's kitchen.

She congratulates Brittany, multiple times, because despite what everyone else thinks, she knew her girlfriend could do it. Stupid people don't win four national championships and have more extracurriculars than Jesus and Quinn combined.

And if Brittany can get in there, of course she's going to get in elsewhere.

The sweat's not even dry on her skin when Brittany flops onto her back and says, "I'm going to Stanford!"

"Maybe," Santana says, rubbing at her mouth. "I haven't got mine yet. We have to wait and see."

They'll know in a few days; her letter might even be waiting at home for her. And there's still Chicago, and New York, and even Boston to hear from.

Brittany shifts around to pull the sheet over her naked body, curling onto her side. "I know, but…" Her hand scuttles across the bedding, halting in the expanse between them. "Santana, it's the best school I applied to. Why would I turn that down?"

This isn't part of the plan she's sketched out, she's not ready to color that line in.

'But what if I don't get in?' settles on her tongue, but she swallows it down. And what if she gets in somewhere else; somewhere better?

"I know, Britt. And I'm _so_ proud of you. But we have to wait and see, okay?" she says, and kisses Brittany's cheek, getting up to take a shower. "There's still other places to hear back from."

"Santana, wait," Brittany says, reaching out to grab her wrist but her fingers slip against Santana's skin.

"We'll just wait, okay," she says, before disappearing into the bathroom. They have to wait.

…

Their glee assignment for the week is a joke. Schue is totally tripping at this point if he thinks they don't know he's just filling in time with shit like 'Inspiration' as the white board word of the week.

But, okay, she might have put some thought into it.

(There's a part of her that still wants to make up for last year, and she communicates better through song. Now more than ever, she needs Brittany to understand what she's feeling.)

"This is for my girlfriend," she says, and manages not to fuck up 'Natural Woman', even when she sings, "Now I'm no longer doubtful of what I'm living for," and gets a little teary.

It's not her fault; she's just a little hormonal today. She's not turning into Water Works Berry.

Brittany cries into her hair, clinging to her in the middle of the choir room, and she ignores Rachel applauding Santana's growth in theatricality in favor of rubbing Brittany's back until she calms down. She gets it, and that's all that matters to Santana.

…

The envelope is so thick that she knows what it means before she's even touched it. It's sitting on the kitchen counter when she gets home from school, and distantly she wishes her parents were home for this.

"Oh my god, this is what mine looked like," Brittany says over her shoulder, nudging her forward excitedly. "Come on, Santana, you have to open it."

It doesn't look anything like Brittany's envelope, though. Postmarks that say Cambridge, Massachusetts aren't anything like ones that say Stanford, California.

Especially when her own envelope marked Stanford, California had been so thin the day before.

…

("It doesn't matter," she shrugged, and ignored the way Brittany was looking at her with sad eyes. "There's still other places.")

…

Her Mami cries. She thinks her Papi does, too, but he's covering it up digging around in the fridge until he shouts, "ahah!" and reappears with a bottle of sparkling wine.

Maybe she cries, too, but she's not really sure why.

They all drink a glass, her parents and Brittany and Santana, and she puts up with her Mami squeezing her tight, kissing her cheeks until she declares she's going to go make, "the smuggest post on The Facebook the world has ever seen," and her Papi disappears to make some phone calls to the bank.

"Harvard's not going to pay for itself," he says, but it's the voice he uses when he tells her Mami she's not getting any younger, when what he really means is he thinks she hung the moon.

"Better get used to it," Brittany says, stealing her nearly empty glass from her hands and linking their fingers together. "I bet there's champagne every day at Harvard."

"Probably," she says, and curls into Brittany's side, not feeling like she could hang a cloud, let alone the moon.

They still have to wait.

…

"I want to get a puppy," she says, swapping her sunglasses for her AP US History books.

"What kind?"

This is why Brittany is the best. Not 'why?' Not 'that's a terrible idea.' Not 'where on earth are we going to keep it in the matchbox-sized apartment we end up living in?'

"I don't know, something cute. What kind of dogs do you like?"

Brittany swings her locker closed, hitching her backpack on her shoulder. "Lord Tubbington doesn't really like dogs."

"Oh." She hadn't thought of that.

They head down the hallway together, Brittany's US History class next to Santana's. "Maybe Lord T just hasn't met the right dog yet," Brittany says when they're about to part.

"We'll have to set him up on some dates," she says, hovering in the doorway to grin at Brittany. "I bet there's a OKCupid for animals."

Brittany moves further down the hallway, stepping backwards as she chuckles. "Only if they're not species-ist."

More people start arriving for class, and she waves at Brittany as she lets someone shove her back into the classroom.

…

"There's a letter from Juilliard!" Mrs Pierce shouts when they get in after Cheerios practice. "And BBS!"

Her heart races as she drags Brittany into the kitchen, and all but stops when she sees two vastly different sized envelopes.

Brittany snags the smaller one before Santana can see which one it is, gives it a cursory glance and then tosses it back on the counter. "Juilliard was never going to happen anyway."

"Britt!" she squeals, and grabs at the larger envelope, checking it's actually from there. "We can go to Boston!"

It's exactly what she wanted, and now it's real.

She's not sure when the spot in her plan reserved for college was filled with Harvard, a thought she's kept tucked inside in case it didn't happen, but it was probably around the time she started thinking in terms of _their_ future and not just her own. And now their future is going to be awesome, just like she planned.

They'd done heaps of research, looking at places where there was somewhere for both of them, and there's still BU and BC to hear from in Boston, but why on earth would she turn down Boston Ballet School? That's just stupid; the place is fantastic, as far as Santana can tell.

And so what if they won't be able to share a dorm together for the first year; they'll be in the same city, and not in cities so far apart they might as well be on different planets, and after a year they'll be able to get a place and live together and, god, she can't stop shaking now that they don't have to wait anymore.

She spins around to grab at Brittany, worried she's about explode without something to hold her together, but Brittany's standing there flat footed, looking at her like the world is ending.

"I thought you understood," she says softly. "Santana, I'm going to Stanford."

It's like a bucket of ice over her head, which she always thought was a really cliched saying that didn't mean anything, but she's had an actual bucket of ice tipped over her before--Nationals, freshman year, Brittany helped her warm up afterwards.

It feels exactly like that.

"But I got into Harvard," she says, and her voice sounds like it's coming from a million miles away.

"I know." Brittany takes the envelope from Santana's hands, sets it back on the bench carefully, and pulls Santana towards her. "But I got into somewhere really good, too. Somewhere I don't just have to dance."

Somewhere that might as well be another planet.

Her mouth twitches painfully and she bites on her lip to stop it, but then Brittany pulls her even closer, "It's going to be okay," spoken against her hair, and the sob works its way free without her permission.

None of this is with her permission, and she has no idea how she can feel so safe in Brittany's arms when it doesn't feel like anything will be okay ever again. She thought she was done feeling like this, like her insides are caving in, and it makes her cry even harder.

"But what about us?" she manages to say. "I only just made things right."

"I know, honey," Brittany murmurs, rubbing her back, but she doesn't answer Santana's question.

…

It's pretty insensitive of Mr Schue to start opening each glee club meeting with a call for who got acceptance letters. Not everyone's plans are turning out how they wanted, and even she thinks it's cruel to rub people's faces in it.

Quinn actually screams when Brittany tells everyone about Santana's letter, pulling Santana down to hug her. "We're going to be so close to each other, it's going to be great."

New Haven and Boston aren't all that close, but she stops herself from asking Quinn how exactly she got into Yale. 

In truth, she couldn't care less about where Quinn, or Mike, or Mercedes, or Puck or FinnorKurtorRachel or any damn person is going to be next year, including herself, but she pretends to be happy about it when Rachel announces she's going to hug Santana in congratulations.

_…_

They're hardly the first people on the planet to do long distance.

But that's so far beyond the point it might as well not even bother with being a point. Brittany's going to California, and she's going to Massachusetts, and Brittany's going to dance, and she's going to learn whatever the hell it is they teach you at Harvard, and then.

Something.

"I can't believe you're turning down Boston Ballet," she says against Brittany's shoulder, fingers curled into her sweater.

"It'll be okay," Brittany says, fingers dragging through Santana's hair.

She only sniffs a little when she says, "No it won't."

She's trying to be accepting. She's trying not to be mad. Stanford's a really good school, and Brittany should only have really good things in her life. But what she had in her head was perfect, and it could be a reality, but it's just... not happening.

After Brittany falls asleep, Santana lies awake, unable to plan her way out of a paper bag. The Pierces' house is on the corner of what counts for a busy street in this nothing town, and she watches the lights from the occasionally passing car slip through the gap at the top of the curtains to roll across the ceiling.

"Britt," she whispers much later, not sure if she even wants Brittany to be awake.

"Yeah," comes the reply, Brittany rolling over to share Santana's pillow.

"Maybe I'll get off the waitlist."

"Maybe," Brittany says, slipping back into sleep.

_…_

"God, I can't wait to get out of this shithole," she says, face screwing up in disgust as they make their way through the Lima Bean to where everyone's sitting near the back already. "Boston's going to kick ass, and I'm never coming back here."

Brittany swings their arms back and forth, letting Santana take the couch and perching herself on the arm.

"Amen," Quinn says, raising her cup of coffee.

"And Boston has better coffee, according to like every blog I've read."

Brittany nudges her shoulder. "Everyone there drinks Dunkin Donuts coffee."

"Whatever," she says, nudging her back. "You'll just have to take me to all the good coffee places in Palo Alto."

"You two are so gay married," Kurt says from across the table between them, but Brittany's grinning at her and Santana can't be bothered looking away to tell him to shut up.

_…_

She doesn't get off the waitlist.

Cheerios practice has just ended when her phone rings, and the admissions officer is this nice old lady who doesn't hang up on her when she starts to cry. But her tears do nothing but give away everything when Brittany climbs into Santana's car a few minutes later, having come from Santana doesn't even know where.

Brittany pulls Santana close and kisses her firmly, and Santana kisses back even as the console and the hand brake dig into her side. "You won't believe me that it'll be okay, and it's just making everything worse. You have to trust me that it'll be okay."

She grabs Brittany's hand where it's resting on her leg, presses a kiss against the skin of her fingers. "I'll try to believe you, okay?"

Wanting to believe it has to count for something, right?

…

Graduation is surreal. It's so weird to stand there with everyone and know she might never see any of these people ever again. It's not like she's gonna tell them, because that's gross, but she hopes it's not how things turn out.

It's just that everyone's got plans, and it's hard to see how they fit together.

Mike's going to Boston Ballet School, which she tries not to think about, but they're going to look each other up once they're settled.

And Quinn's going to Yale, which isn't actually that far.

Mercedes and Puck are going to LA, so that's a little trickier.

Finchel are getting married, so instead of being the pathetic girl staying in Lima for her boyfriend, Rachel will be the woman who stood by her husband. It's… whatever, it makes her want to barf, but she's not judging.

Kurt, she has no idea, and she doesn't think he does either.

And Brittany might as well be going to the moon for how far apart she feels from her at the moment.

…

The whole believing everything's going to be okay thing doesn't really work for her.

She alternates between fighting viciously and clinging desperately. Her heart beats so harshly she can't focus on anything but the pain of it in her chest, and she can't understand why Brittany isn't more upset about it all.

It makes her think horrible things, and she's scrambling constantly to prove to herself that there's no truth in them.

She doesn't know what she's saying when she says it, but once it's out there she doesn't want to take it back. She doesn't want it to not be an option, because it's the best option she's come up with.

"You're not going to wait tables for a year and try again, Santana!" Brittany's close to tears as she shouts it, but Santana won't stop because she needs her to understand how much Santana doesn't want this for their future.

"I'll go to community college! Or you could come to Boston, I don't care!"

"Maybe you should care a little more, and try to include what I want in what you care about," Brittany says, low and sharp, and then leaves her alone in the darkness of her bedroom.

It's thick envelopes that are going to tear them apart, not the three thousand, one hundred and twenty-eight miles that will soon be between them.

…

Their fights never last long, because there's not enough time for that.

Her dramatics over never seeing anyone again are completely uncalled for, and Brittany makes fun of her as they wander down the street in the general direction of Puck's place.

"You're such a worrywart," Brittany says, dancing along the edge of the sidewalk ahead of where Santana is tromping along in her flip flops. "And it's all for nothing."

"I'm not," she grumps, but she tucks the words away, hoping they're true and that she's worrying for nothing.

Still, it doesn't hurt to cover her bases—she's really good at that—and even while she's standing in Puck's back yard, sipping her beer as she dances against Brittany, she starts to plan.

…

The sun's completely set and she looks up to find herself sitting in the dark, but there's a color-coded Google spreadsheet open on her screen and she for the first time in weeks she feels warm and solid.

She leaves it open for when Brittany gets there, and when she realizes how late it already is she skips about ninety percent of her routine so she's ready in time.

"I brought those fruity blue drinks you like," Brittany says as she comes through her door, kissing Santana's shoulder as she passes by where Santana's in front of the vanity fixing her lip gloss.

"Thanks," she says, not bothering with embarrassment over her choice of drink—Brittany doesn't care, and anyone else who makes fun of her will get a punch in the throat—and pulls Brittany over to her desk. "Come look at what I did."

"What is it?" Brittany asks, perching on the edge of the desk chair.

"It's the Stanford calendar and the Harvard calendar. The stupid schools have nearly the same colors, so I gave Stanford Tiffany blue because I know it's your favorite." She presses a kiss against Brittany's jaw as she leans over her shoulder to point at the screen. "Yellow is when you have enough of a gap to come visit me, orange is me to visit you, and green is all the breaks that overlap and we can go anywhere we want."

"Santana, this is…." Brittany bites her lip, blinking at the screen. "You're being crazy, you know that right?"

She pulls her arms from around Brittany's neck, straightening and moving away. She didn't know that, and who the hell is Brittany to tell her she's being crazy when she's the one who's trying to make this work and all Brittany is doing is—

"Santana."

Her eyes roam around the room until she meets Brittany's gaze, and she quirks a smile in Santana's direction.

"What?"

"It's a nice thought, okay? And Spring Break in Miami sounds really fun."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," Brittany says, and pulls Santana over and into her lap. "I'll get all sunburned, and when they turn into freckles you can make a picture out of them." Santana returns her arms to their place around Brittany's neck, holding her close as Brittany rubs her back. "Now stop being crazy, okay?"

The thing is she doesn't know how to stop, and time is running out.

…

Santana wakes up with the sun.

It's habit, and one she's desperately looking forward to breaking after three and a half years of Cheerios. Even in the summer she's never managed to sleep in, unlike Brittany who every moment as a potential opportunity to nap.

The curtains are pulled haphazardly across the window, the gap in the middle letting in a blinding stripe of sunshine that slashes across the sheets.

She buries her face in the surface beneath her, but Brittany's flesh will only yield so far.

"Stop it," Brittany grumbles, and pushes Santana away gently.

…

There are boxes everywhere, half full of things she's not even sure she wants to keep, but certain she doesn't want to throw away.

She finds a pile of letters from when she and Brittany went to different camps one summer in middle school, wrapped inside a shirt that she'd never fit into now, and it gives her an idea that she knows Brittany's going to love.

Two hours later she's hauling a FedEx box out of her car and up to where Brittany's bedroom is in a similar state to hers.

"I got you a present, Britt Britt." She sets the box down beside where Brittany's sitting in the doorway to her wardrobe.

"Is it a puppy?"

"No, Britt," Santana says gently, kicking off her shoes and sinking down beside her. "It's for when we're away."

She pushes the box towards Brittany and wishes she'd thought to at least stick a bow on it or something.

"Envelopes?" Brittany pulls one out of the box.

"Yeah, see," she points to the front. "All pre-paid, and I got them printed with my address at college. We can write to each other like we did that summer."

"That's an awesome idea." But the way she says it has Santana's fingers twisting around each other, pressed against her chest.

…

There's just something about these two hetero numbskulls that inspires _something_ in the place usually reserved for a little red notebook of insults, at least a little, and Rachel caught her at a bad time, so here she is, ring shopping for the wedding of the year.

She only rolls her eyes once at that thought, instead of the fifty million times it deserves.

It was supposed to be her, Rachel and Quinn—god only knows why—but Quinn's bailed—even Santana can figure that one out.

"What do you think about this set?"

Santana comes over from where she's looking at the sparklier selection of rings to lean against the display case, eyeing the matching wedding bands under Rachel's tapping nail. Using wedding bands that were for a wedding that never happened is bad luck, according to Rachel.

"They look exactly the same as the old rings."

Rachel chuckles quietly at that. "I know," she sighs. "But there's not a whole lot of choice here, and this was the one I chose. So I'll just choose it again."

…

"Come back to bed," she mumbles, face smushed against the pillow.

"Can't," Brittany chirps, like she's some kind of bird who rises with the sun. "Meeting Mike at the studio so we can work on partnering."

She pulls Brittany's pillow over her head. "That's gross. _Not_ wanky."

"You know what I mean," Brittany says, ripping the pillow away to press a kiss against her skin. "He needs the experience, and I need a partner. There's only a couple of weeks left until—"

"Yes," she says, voice taking on a sharp edge, "I know exactly how long we have left."

She pulls the pillow back over her head, but it doesn't block out the sound of Brittany opening and closing the door, thumping down the stairs and out the front door, and driving away in her mother's old station wagon.

The smell of her breath trapped in the pillow cocoon is disgusting, and she tosses the pillow away.

"I know exactly how long," she tells the ceiling, that feeling in her chest, that used to be so warm, burning in an entirely different way.

…

In the week before the wedding, she finds herself spending more time with Rachel than she has in the last four years combined.

How she ends up in charge of carting the decorations across town, she has no idea, but when she arrives at the Hudson-Hummel place, Rachel's skipping out the door before Santana's even out of the car.

"Santana, thank god! I thought you'd gotten lost."

She rolls her eyes behind her glasses, because she's only lived three blocks from Kurt her entire life.

"Where do you want this crap?" she asks, popping the trunk of her car.

They haul everything around to the backyard, tucking it away under the back porch. Rachel doesn't shut up the entire time about how she's still got five million things to do before Saturday, but even with her hair in a messy knot and paint all over her legs from decorating whatever the hell she was decorating, she looks really happy.

It makes her want to gag, but happiness looks good on Rachel.

…

Santana doesn't see why there needs to be a rehearsal dinner for a wedding they've already rehearsed for once before, but they go anyway because they're in the wedding party and free food and booze is free food and booze.

She watches Mike and Brittany dance together on the little dance floor at the restaurant, and sucks down the drink she got from the bartender she's pretty sure she made out with when she was a freshman and he was a senior.

She's had enough when Brittany comes over to chug down her glass of water, and she grabs at Brittany's wrist before she can head back out to dance some more. "I want to go home."

"But it's only early," Brittany says. "I want to keep dancing." She sets her glass back on the table, and looks down at Santana sitting there. "You can go home if you want, but I'm staying."

She waits for Brittany, because they came together, and when they get home they sneak inside along their well-established route.

"Come here," Brittany says, and holds out her hand for Santana to take.

Brittany perches at the edge of the bed, and Santana stands between her knees, fingers combing through sweat dampened hair. Their first kiss is brutal, as are all the ones that follow. Santana presses so hard she knows there will be marks in the morning, but she doesn't stop herself.

When they're both naked, Brittany's fingers work frantically between her legs and when she finally comes, so much later she wasn't sure she would, the flesh of Brittany's shoulder breaks under her teeth.

…

The girls are all crammed into Kurt's bedroom, while the guys are on the other side of the house with Finn.

Apparently it's not bad luck to reuse bridesmaid dresses like it is to reuse rings, and she scowls at her reflection. Pink is not her color.

Brittany's standing in front of the mirror when Tina finishes doing Santana's hair, and she sneaks up behind her, arms winding around her waist as she settles her chin against Brittany's shoulder.

Even in the stupid dresses, they look perfect together.

She kisses Brittany's skin, wincing at the mark there for a moment before she grins at Brittany in the mirror. "You're going to end up as pink as this dress."

"I know," Brittany sighs, before pulling a bottle of suntan lotion from the bag sitting at her feet. "Slather me?" She flops down in a nearby seat, pulling her hair out of the way.

The lotion pools in Santana's palm, and she dabs it across Brittany's freckled skin, avoiding the tear that she caused. Her fingers continue working across Brittany's shoulders, even when the lotion's completely gone.

"I'm going to end up like a lobster in California."

Anger floods her body at the reminder. "You're not," she snaps, the hypothetical sunburn a poor substitute for a real target.

"Yes, I am." Brittany's tone matches Santana's, and she slips out from under Santana's still-moving fingers, disappearing through the door before she can reply.

Quinn and Tina stand on the other side of the room, silently looking at her like she's lost her mind.

Maybe she has.

…

The ceremony might have been lovely, but the hell if she knows the truth of that.

Rachel and Finn are dancing under strings of lights across the Hudson-Hummel backyard, everyone standing around all googly-eyed as if what just took place isn't the biggest joke going. As if this is actually a rational way to behave.

But they look happy, and it makes Santana's stomach roil.

She ducks down the side of the house, intent on barfing in Mrs Hudson's dying rose bush and not in front of half the people she's ever known in her life, but she hasn't even made it across the front yard when Brittany follows after her, calling out her name.

"Go away," she shouts, because she can't shout the things she wants.

"Santana," Brittany says in that voice. She's heard a lot of that voice in the last few months. "I'm not going to leave you—"

"Marry me." The words fall out of her mouth without her permission, but they've been sitting there on her tongue waiting for a long time now. Maybe since Quinn's accident. Maybe since the day they met.

" _Santana_ ," Brittany breathes, but nothing else follows.

The clasp on her clutch sticks, but she fumbles it open until the box inside tumbles into her palm, and she flips it open. "I'm serious. I got you a ring, and not here obviously, but we can go to New York, and—"

"Santana, no." And there's this look that washes across Brittany's face as she says it.

But Brittany doesn't mean _no_ , obviously. She couldn't mean no, and she ignores the way the box rattles in her palm like her heart's rattling in her chest. "What do you mean, no?"

"I think we— you, need to just stop. Take a breath for a second, honey, I know you sometimes forget."

She breathes audibly, just to prove a point, but it hurts because she rushes it, the feeling in her stomach swelling to take over her whole body, filling the empty places threatening to cave in, and it's all she can do not to throw up on her own shoes. "Answer me, Brittany."

Brittany stays in her place, and she looks as steady as a rock. A fixed point for Santana to focus on. "I mean no, Santana, I'm not going to marry you."

"Because we're so young? I know, okay, but if those two idiots back there can do it— And if it's because it's not legal, Britt, we can go to New York—"

They can, she looked it up. (She didn't know why she was googling it, really. She was just curious, at first. This sort of stuff affects her, she should know about it. It was harder to explain to herself why she was buying a ring after she and Rachel had parted company at the jewellery store.) They don't even have to stay there, they can both still go to college, on the opposite sides of the fucking country if that's what they have to do, but they'll at least be married which is real and certain, and not girlfriends which _isn't_.

"I'm not going to New York to get _married_ , Santana. I'm not going anywhere to get married! I'm—" She pushes back the hair that's fallen across her face, an angry, jerking movement that exposes the shine in her eyes to the fading light. "I'm going to California. And you're going to Boston. You're so convinced we're not going to work in the future that you're making us not work _now_ , and I think—"

Brittany stills, and Santana counts her breaths like she's counting out time.

"I think we need to stop," she says, and the rock turns to rubble before Santana's eyes.

"Stop _what_?" she cries, but she knows the answer. She's known the answer for months, every time she's tried to hold on just a little tighter and Brittany's become that much more difficult to hold on to. Brittany had told her, months ago, that she was making everything worse, but she didn't listen. She didn't listen and look what she's done.

The physical distance between them closes as Brittany comes closer, eyes locked on the box sitting open in Santana's palm. "This," she says, and snaps the boxed closed with a shaking hand. "We have to stop this."

The thing that's been driving her all year, the thing that had her sinking her teeth into Brittany hard enough to bruise and break, shudders to a halt with an abruptness that twists her insides.

She watches the box tumble to the ground, and maybe it wasn't Brittany's hand shaking. Maybe it was hers, and she can't look at Brittany or she'll die, she just knows it. The feeling in her chest makes her sure of it.

(All she had to do was listen to Brittany, but she couldn't do it.)

All she can do now is turn around and run, in her stupid pink dress and stupid pink heels, with her stupid, stupid heart somehow still beating in her chest.


	15. and it's only doubts that we're counting (i've been trying to nod my head, but it's like i've got a broken neck) [2/3]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> august 2012-march 2013; santana, the college months.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is not an april fool's day prank.
> 
> i can't even begin to describe how much i struggled with this, but the fact that it's taken almost a year probably gives that away. it will never be 100% what i wanted to say about this, but it's as close as i'll ever be able to get.
> 
> thanks, more than usual, to the numerous people who have seen the various incarnation of this over the last year. i'm sure you're as glad it's over as i am.

 

Day 1

After eighteen years of wanting out, it should be a fucking party. Cake and balloons and a goddamn pony.

Instead:

"You're sure?" her Mami asks, holding her arms tightly at the security checkpoint and frowning at her with that worried look that's reserved entirely for Santana. It hasn't left her face in the last two days.

"Yeah," she sniffs, not bothering to wipe her face because there's just no point. Her Mami's grip is more important than trying to look like she's not falling apart. "I just—need to not be here right now."

And then she's through security, and gone.

Maybe she's taking the easy way out, but if this is easy then difficult will actually end her. She'd roll her eyes at the dramatics, but she seriously can't be bothered.

Eighteen years of wanting out, and just like that it's done.

…

Day 3

She gets her suite key and a stack of information pamphlets from a smiling little helper, and apparently she's an actual college student now.

…

Day 9

She needs to—

Well, there are a lot of things she needs to do, but right now she just needs to turn her phone off.

(The texts just _won't_ stop and Santana just _can't_.

_where did you go. please don't be mad okay im sorry i dont think we should get married_

_ill come over tomorrow so we can talk about this_

_santana?_

_?_

_your mom said you went to boston already_

_im sorry but you should be sorry too_

_s please just answer your phone_ )

She shoves her phone into her purse and stomps across the Yard and down a pathway. It's possible that she's lost. She recognizes a couple of buildings, but they're not necessarily the ones she's looking for right now.

When she used to think about college, it was this very specific picture in her head, and with one glaring hole, this is pretty much it. Maybe she should have painted a bigger picture, because this one, if Santana's quite honest, sucks and blows.

The noise in her head gets crazy, like every thought she has is accumulating without anywhere to vent them. There's no one to whom she can point out how much some guy is like Mr Schue's lovechild with a hamster, or how she appreciates the honesty of the homeless guy outside the co-op's sign that says he needs change to buy some weed. As much as she'd like to toss her phone off a cliff, she finds herself unlocking her phone to send a text more times than she cares to count, only to click it back off again when she remembers.

Instead she moves through her orientation seminars like she cares, sits in buildings full of history like it matters, smiles at these strangers like she gives a damn, and seriously contemplates becoming a waitress.

…

Not that it matters, but her suitemates are okay.

Santana's already sized Connie up for the bitch she clearly is, so she's keeping her distance there and hopes to god when she rotates out of the single room next semester that she ends up sharing with Lisa. Lisa practically chews cud she's so farm-bred, but seems harmless enough. Lisa's also friends with Erin, who lives above them, is ginger and weird in a way that reminds Santana of Ms Pillsbury, and spends so much time in their suite Santana includes her in the headcount automatically.

Mostly she tries not to talk to any of them whenever she's passing through their common room, but they invite her along to parties with free alcohol, so she tolerates them.

Tonight's party is lame, but she's drunk as shit when they get home, so she's calling it a success anyway, and her only concern is getting her heels off her feet without ending up on her face.

Lisa and Erin are in the common room arguing about whether or not _Homeland_ is a problematic depiction of Islam, and if not for the fact that all her clothes are in here, she'd set the dorm on fire to get them to shut up. But it's easier to just kick her door shut, pull off her dress, and lie on her bed with her headphones on, than listen to them go on until sunrise like they've been doing all week.

And she's drunk as shit, so there's no explaining why she opens up her laptop and hits her shortcut for Facebook. It's just a reflex; it's not like she wants to look. She just wants to—

(She doesn't _just_ want to anything. She wants to breathe again without every inhalation feeling like agony. There's nothing _just_ about needing to breathe.)

Everyone who's going to college is there by now, and her _People Who I Wouldn't Feed to Zombies_ custom list is a wall of posts about how awesome it is, how drunk they are, how much fun they're having, and she should delete the list since she would absolutely feed these people to zombies.

**Brittany S. Pierce**

_don't ask how, but I scored the claw! what's the prize for hopping every fountain before the end of admit week?_ — with Matthew Kim, Loretta Foster and 7 others.

She doesn't understand a single word of that, and it's not because of the alcohol in her system. The texts tell her one thing, in sad and sorry words, and have been over and over again for two weeks now, but this tells her something else entirely that makes it hard to believe anything, and it's easier to curl up in her blankets with her "This is Bullshit" playlist on and go to sleep. At least if she's sleeping she doesn't have to think about how she'd rather be scrubbing dishes than doing this.

"Can you fucks turn the pretentious down out there, people are trying to sleep!" she says in the direction of the common room, and then pulls her pillow over her head. It's not like she needs air, anyway.

Her playlist has fifty-seven songs on it, and she's near the end, Lindsey Buckingham and Stevie Nicks singing about going their own way, before she falls asleep as the birds outside her window begin to wake up.

…

Day 16

With the right amount of brown sugar, the oatmeal tastes like her Mami's and she's honestly not sure if she'll ever eat it again.

…

Day 19

It's completely ridiculous that they think an eighteen year old should be in charge of working out what she wants to do with the rest of her life, and Santana feels like she might be having a midlife crisis.

It's not that she has no idea what she wants to do, but looking at her Study Card at the end of Shopping Week, she's not really sure she knows what she _doesn't_ want to do.

One of her core requirements, for _Aesthetic and Interpretive Understanding,_ should probably have been called _Lesbians, Come Pick Up Here_ , so that was an obvious choice. Lisa had been in the class too on the first day, sitting next to her and joking about how they're definitely not the only gays in the village.

(It made her think of lesbian colonies in TriBeCa, at which point the class started and it was too late to get the hell out of there.)

The rest of her classes sound like something out of an episode of _Community_ , but there is no way she isn't taking _American Protest Literature: From Tom Paine to Tupac_. So far, angry lesbian poet sounds as good an option as becoming a doctor, but she wants to keep them both an option for the moment. At least here she has options, unlike her possible extracurriculars, where she's got glee club down and absolutely nothing else down.

"Hey, is Papi home?" she asks her Mami during her weekly phone call home. "I want to ask him about which biology class I should be taking."

"He is, let me find him." She can hear her Mami walking through the house, down the hallway to her Papi's office, even as she reminds Santana to send her the dates for winter break so she can grab some flights for Santana to come home.

"I promise, okay, I'll email them to you," she says. "Now let me talk to Papi."

"Okay, mija. And I mean it, don't forget. I miss you, and I love you."

"I miss you, too," she replies, and for the first time since standing in that airport she's sad about the distance.

…

Day 33

The Yard is for suckers, but she can watch the tourists gawking from her window, and that's more interesting than trying to pick an audition song.

The Spotify playlist she's currently listening to is making her nauseous, but she's had no luck picking anything so far that she's resorted to sarching for audition song playlists and gagging at the fact that people think they would get chose for anything besides World's Biggest Lameass by getting up and bleating My Heart Will Go On.

The other benefit of having a window overlooking the yard is that she can see people coming to their entryway, including her suitemates, and she slaps her laptop into silence before they make their way upstairs and inside.

…

Day 35

She passes by cheerleading tryouts on her way to class, but she seriously couldn't give a jiggly tit.

…

Day 39

At least fall in Boston is pretty.

After a month of classes, Santana's concerned she's going to need glasses, but other than a recurring headache college is fine.

Her classes are actually interesting, too, but Fridays are exhausting, with class from ten until five, and the fact that a 10 am start is something to be upset about is such a first world problem she makes herself sick.

According to some obnoxious jackass—also known as one of her peers—pontificating during class the other day, first world problems aren't a thing, they're everyone's problems, not just rich white people in America. She's not rich and she's not white, but something about the thought that there's some girl in the middle of Africa, or Asia, or even Antarctica hanging out with the penguins, wandering around a college campus feeling like she does every day is oddly comforting.

None of which has anything to do with why she's hurrying across the Yard and around Memorial Hall to the basement entrance.

There are only a couple of people waiting, and that's probably because they've been holding auditions all week, and now there's only half an hour left for her to do this. She meant to go Monday, but getting her reading out of the way seemed more important. And then Tuesday she couldn't skip the gym. And then Wednesday. And then whatever.

The Holden Choruses are like the oldest glee club in the history of America or some bullshit, and she just— It seems like the thing to do. When she's called in, she sets her bag down by the door before taking her place in front of the three people at the front of the room.

"Name and class?" the guy in the middle asks.

"Santana Lopez, class of 2016."

"Sing us the song of your heart, Ms Lopez."

And she's going to; even though the guy says it in a douchey sort of way, she really is. She opens her mouth, sucks in a breath, and it comes out in a shudder so violent her entire body shakes, and her hand claps over her mouth before the sound that wants to escape can do so.

Maybe she should have rehearsed before now. Decided what she'd sing. Put a single moment of thought into the idea beyond the fact that glee club in high school was the _one place_ where she felt okay outside of—

She inhales sharply, the air filling her lungs sending an ache through her ribs like it's the only thing stopping her from caving in.

She doesn't understand what's happening; why she can't breathe or hear or see past the way the room spins around her. All she knows is that she can't do _that_. Not the thing that was everything to her, that let her speak when she couldn't find the words. Not anymore, when she's got nothing left to say.

She stumbles towards the door, choking out an, "excuse me," and barely remembering to grab her bag before she runs for the exit. The steps trip her up, and she doesn't bother doing anything more than collapsing against the side of the stairs, folding over her knees and staying there until she can breathe again.

(All it takes is shutting down every single thought in her head.)

The sun's starting to set by the time she feels like she can move again, and as she drags herself across the Yard, dodging tourists and students, she looks at this place she's been wandering around for a month now and wonders how things manage to look the same as they did an hour ago.

…

The light of her phone's screen hurts her eyes in the darkness but she thumbs her way into her messages, frowning at the screen when she can't find what she's looking for.

She can't find her name, because it's not at the top where it always is. Was.

The blank message she creates blinds her, making her eyes water, and she begins the message a hundred times over before she can't stand it anymore.

_I'm sorry I never said goodbye._

She's sorry about a lot of things, but that's the only one she had any control over.

The phone nearly breaks when she tries to get the sim card out, and then it actually breaks when she hits it with the piece of brick she's been using as a doorstop.

"It's fine," she says when Lisa knocks on her door a couple of minutes later.

And it is fine.

Santana kicks the bed sheet on the floor over the pieces of broken glass, takes the two whole steps over to her desk, and turns on her lamp. It's 2am, but she's got nothing else to do besides study.

…

Sometime in September

At least twice a week, Santana falls asleep at her desk.

She dreams of Brittany a lot.

Not in some kind of deep and meaningful way—that would be fucking stupid—but she's always there, lurking in her unconscious mind, and it makes it easier to go through the day, with Brittany relegated to the night.

…

October 5, 2012

Midterms is a bullshit word that actually means "You think college is for partying? Oh, you poor sucker", but after she gets the first round back it's at least a relief to have evidence that, her feelings about it entirely to the contrary, this hasn't all been a complete waste of her existence.

Despite her obvious reluctance to have anything to do with them, Lisa and Erin still ask her if she wants to come out with them sometimes, and as she's just getting back from class with a shiny A- in her bag, she can't think of a reason to say no.

It's over in Pennypacker, and there are about fifty people too many in the space she finds herself in, talking to some jerk frat boy from her cell biology class. They pregamed before heading over, because beer from a badly tapped keg is, according to Erin, "the greatest sin a person can commit," and she's a little buzzed and becoming a lot annoyed.

Frat boy won't stop staring at her tits, obviously interested and not caring if she's okay with that or not, and as she stands there scowling at his face and he completely fails to notice, she decides she doesn't need this in her life. She ditches him, "to get a drink," and slips out into the stairway, intent on making her escape.

She's coming off the last flight of stairs when she runs smack into someone coming in the main door, the box in their hands dropping and spilling a bunch of vinyl records across the floor.

Santana crouches down to help gather them up, looks a little closer, and notices there's some cool shit there.

"You should watch where you're going."

Santana eyes the woman crouched beside her. "You should watch who you're telling to watch where they're going."

The woman snorts out this little laugh, and looks over at Santana for a moment. "Cute."

'So are you,' floats through her consciousness, and she smiles before she realizes what she's doing.

Record woman smiles back, and Santana knows, as soon as it happens, that this woman's interested. She doesn't have a fucking clue what to do with that, and is thankfully saved when the woman asks her to give her a hand getting the records downstairs.

"You ruined the box, it's the least you can do to make up for it," she says, and then leads the way down to the basement.

 _The least she can_ … Jesus. Her face feels like it's on fire, she's blushing so badly, but she follows anyway into what turns out to be where they broadcast the campus radio station from. "You work here?"

"Volunteer. It's good experience."

"Ah." She sets the records down on the desk. The place is deserted, but it is also late on a Friday night, so it'd be weirder if there were people around, and she's suddenly very conscious of the fact that she's alone in the basement with a woman who's—she takes a moment to look—really fucking hot.

It's—whatever, this is what she's supposed to do in college, isn't it?

…

The woman's name is Michelle, she makes Santana come in about five seconds, and is only slightly freaked out when Santana starts to cry afterwards, like she's been rattled apart by the force of actual pleasure.

"First time, or first time since the last time?" she asks, and Santana laughs through a sob.

She can't believe— a lot of things.

"The second thing," she mumbles as she does her pants back up. "Is it that obvious?"

Michelle leans back against the desk opposite. "Sweetie, my hand is drenched and it's not from your crying. I'll be insulted if it's not because of that."

She'd like the earth to open up and swallow her right about now, even better if it did so with sharp pointy teeth. "I'm just gonna—" she jerks her head towards the door.

"No worries. As hot as you are, the crying thing kind of killed it," Michelle says, but she winks and it makes Santana feel slightly less like a blue baller, or whatever the female equivalent is. "Come say hi when you're not going to cry all over me."

That will happen exactly never, which is when she's leaving her room again.

…

As she stalks along the path back to her entryway she realizes she doesn't feel any different at all. Maybe the fact that she doesn't actually feel any worse is a good thing, random and embarrassing tears aside. Progress, or something.

…

October 6, 2012

The other thing about midterms is that they're _not_ just in the middle of the term. Even if she wanted to go out, there's pretty much zero time for that.

Apparently this place is actually teaching her something though, because it's news to Santana that Asia and Europe aren't technically continents.

…

October 10, 2012

Someone chirping, "Hey girl!" behind her scares the crap out of her and she nearly burns herself on the stove as she spins around to see Erin in the doorway to the communal kitchen, pajamas covered by a hoodie and hair in a pile on her head.

"What are you doing down here?" she asks, pulling the pan off the burner before her eggs are ruined.

"Study munchies," Erin replies, pointing her thumb at the vending machines in the corner. "What about you?"

"Eggs," she says pointedly, lifting the pan up, but Erin just nods appreciatively and goes over to liberate some candy.

"We haven't seen you around much," she says as Santana's sliding her eggs onto a plate.

She keeps her eyes on the plate, fussing with the alignment of egg on toast. "I've been busy. You know, learning shit."

Erin feeds about twenty dollars into the vending machine, the sound of the coins dropping through the slot the only noise in the entire basement.

"Don't study too hard," Erin says, giving Santana a small wave as she leaves her to wonder if that's actually a possibility.

…

October 12, 2012

After two more days of living on eggs and orange juice, she has to pull herself together so her parents don't think she's— whatever.

She's not sure she's been that successful.

They're in town for Parents Weekend, and somehow it escaped her notice that they have been entirely encouraging and supportive every time she's called. The reason she wishes she'd noticed being that she might have seen this ambush coming.

"Santana, I'm not criticizing you," her Mami says for about the fifth time. "I'm just saying, your Papi and I are concerned. You're not _doing_ anything."

What the hell does that even mean? She clutches her fork to stop herself from throwing it at the table. They've taken her to Parker's, and there's no way doing that won't get them asked to leave.

"Did you even see my midterms so far?" she asks, after giving herself a moment to breathe. "I'm kicking ass."

"Yes, mija, and we're so proud of you." She can hear the 'but', and she rolls her eyes when her Mami continues, "But you're not even cheering anymore. And what about glee club?"

The prongs of her fork press against her fingertip. "I tried," she says, hoping they'll leave it at that. If she starts bleeding all over the table, they'll definitely get asked to leave.

"What do you mean you tried?" her Papi asks.

"That I tried! I auditioned for the choirs, and I--" she pauses, that feeling from that day tickling at the base of her throat, and she swallows it down. "It's not for me anymore. I need to focus on my studies."

Maybe they'll buy what she's implying. But it sounds as much like bullshit to her own ears as it actually is, and she tosses her fork onto the table and slumps back in her chair, waiting for her Mami to call her on it.

"Santana," she eventually says, fingers touching Santana's wrist. "Has this got anything to do with—"

"Mami, no." She frowns at her plate, resisting the urge to smash it and send her schrod flying everywhere.

"Santana." Her Papi pulls his chair closer to hers. "We know you've been sad, but..."

No. No, they don't know anything, and she shakes her head. She doesn't know anything, so how can they?

"We're just worried," her Mami says, even as her Papi rubs her hand comfortingly.

"Fine," she says, pulling her hand away, and she excuses herself from the table.

…

October 15, 2012

She sees her parents off from their hotel.

"So, who needs of a drink?" she asks when she finds Lisa and Erin sprawled across the couch looking as drained as she feels. Half an hour later it's 10am and they're in a bar with shots of tequila in front of them. No one seems to be questioning them, or trying to stop them, so apparently being an adult is actually awesome.

…

October 16, 2012

Whatever being an adult is, she is not one and it is _not_ awesome.

…

October 20, 2012

She's actually going insane. She doesn't remember the last time she left campus, and she barely remembers what the world looks like away from her six classrooms and her suite.

"I hate this place," she moans from where she's taking a break on their couch. She has three books to read by next Monday, but the thought of being in her room right now makes her feel like vomiting.

"Me, too, friend." Lisa's somewhere on the floor; apparently they're both having a shitty week. But she doesn't say anything else, and Santana can deal with someone who likes not talking as much as she does.

…

October 31, 2012

There's a Haunted House party over in Somerville that Lisa and Erin and some other friends of theirs are going to crash, and all Santana really knows is that they're going as sexy cats—all of them; it's some kind of hazing thing. The details were sketchy, besides the sexy cat part—and that drinks begin at five in their common room.

So there are now people in her common room looking at her like she's the stranger in her own home, and she downs a shot of tequila as the guys get a chant going.

She wishes she'd enquired a little more, because she thinks the hazing part of the evening is that they're walking to the party, and that's really not what she had in mind when she zipped herself into these boots.

"You complain a lot," Erin says as they stumble around what better be the last corner. "It's funny."

"Yeah, it's totally endearing," she mutters, and then almost trips as she kicks at a stone on the road.

"It is," Erin says, linking their arms together. "You're an endearing drunk."

Santana doesn't bother to point out that she's nowhere near drunk, and this is actually just her sparkling personality. They'll work it out eventually; she's surprised they haven't already.

...

The party is a hot mess.

And, she learns as they're filling their cups, a hot mess filled with ballet dancers, which has her gagging on her lukewarm beer.

Erin's explaining about some rivalry between her hip-hop class and this one over in South Boston, and that's whose party this is, but there's another group of sexy cats that appear as she explains and for some reason that means that after they've each stolen a cup of beer from the keg they need to get out of there pretty quickly.

Lisa pulls her through the kitchen of the house, shouting over the music about how there's going to be a fight if they don't hurry up—and how is this still not the gayest Sharks vs Jets encounter she's been involved in?—and she's bumped into like seventeen people who she hasn't paid any attention to, but somehow she doesn't miss the fact that the person who just groped her boob is--

"Mike?!"

"Holy crap, Santana!" Dude is drunk as hell and he throws himself into a hug, arms squeezing her tight and lifting her off the ground.

The last time she saw Mike was-- Finn and Rachel's wedding, and it's such a shock to see him that she hugs him back reflexively.

"It's so good to see you!" Mike says, and looking at his drunk, happy face, she actually believes him, and it overwhelms whatever other feeling that comes with seeing someone from before. "How come you never called me, Santana? You said you were gonna call me when we were settled and you never did."

"Yeah, well." She shrugs as he releases her. "Busy, Mike. And you never called me." As far as she knows that's true.

"I did, too!" Or not. Mike finally realizes Santana's standing there holding someone's hand, and he looks between the two of them. "Who's this?"

"No one," she says, and when Mike starts to smirk she rushes to clarify. "I mean, she's just my suitemate, you perv."

"Well I don't know your life," Mike says, still looking between the two of them.

"Santana," Lisa says, tugging on her hand. "We gotta go."

"No, you can't!" Mike whines, wrapping his arm around her shoulder. "I just found you."

"You found my boob," she says, but she turns to Lisa. "Is it cool if I just stay?"

It's not like she'll ever see him again, and this side trip into whatever will check off so many boxes when she speaks to her parents next that she thinks she can put up with using half her brain for a few hours to make this tolerable

Lisa screws up her nose at Mike as he stands there hanging off Santana's shoulder. "Will you be okay?"

"Yeah. We know each other," she nods at Mike.

Someone's shouting for them from the front door, but Lisa doesn't leave. "Catch a cab home, okay. Or text me if you're not coming home."

It's sweet that she cares, because Santana's definitely never given her a reason to.

…

Mike's friends are hilarious.

Or maybe the alcohol they keep giving her is hilarious and they're just casualties in the wake of her lowered inhibitions.

It turns out she's also awesome at beer pong.

"Is there like, a pro tour for this, because I'm pretty sure I could kill it," she says, collapsing into the couch beside Mike.

Whatever the hell it is, she's actually having fun, which is of course why the next thing Mike says is, "Have you heard from Brittany lately?"

It's the alcohol that has her swinging her fist at him, and she really hopes it's the alcohol that doesn't let Mike get out of the way fast enough.

"Oh, shit," he shouts, clutching at his eye. "Forget I asked!"

She blinks at her fist and the bruise that's already forming, and then watches Mike rolling back against the side of the couch. "Fuck," she says, and then adds, "Sorry." What the fuck is wrong with her?

"Can you at least get me some ice?" Mike groans, and yeah, she can at least do that.

…

November 6, 2012

It doesn't occur to her to question how she managed to run into Mike Chang of all people until it happens again a week later.

"We've got to stop meeting like this," he says, and hands her the beer he's just bought.

They're are some bar to see some band, and it turns out Erin's dancer friends are Mike's Boston Ballet friends, and Santana is half convinced the universe actually hates her.

But he's Mike, and a long, long time ago Mike was a good friend of hers, and when he walks the three of them to the T stop she kind of remembers why.

…

"You okay?" Lisa asks, nudging Santana's foot under the table.

There's a burger place near the Harvard Square T that actually stays open late. It's no Mr Bartley's, but at 2am Santana is hardly one to complain.

It's a Tuesday night, so it's relatively quiet, and they've been eating in silence for the last five minutes. Her face must be doing something to warrant the question, but—

"Yeah." It's weird that it's true; right at this moment, she is.

…

November 7, 2012

The first snow falls overnight, and for some reason that means she gets dragged out of bed and into the Yard in her pajamas and a pair of Uggs. For another reason she ends up in a snowball fight with the two guys from upstairs on her team, and she almost apologizes for underestimating the dude she totally thought was gay, because he nails this guy in the side of the face like a pro.

…

Dude totally is gay, and, "Aren't you like some internet famous lesbian?" is really not what she expects to hear on a Wednesday morning, standing on the Widener library steps in a pair of shorts with ducks on them.

…

November 15, 2012

Then there's an email in her inbox that says:

_I'm coming to The Game and I'd really like to see you._

She's genuinely surprised that, after three months, Quinn even remembers Santana exists. Not that she's exactly pleased that Quinn does, but there's no one who does running away from their problems quite like Quinn, so she convinces herself that it will be fine.

…

November 17, 2012

She could honestly slap herself for being so stupid. She's obviously cursed _and_ she probably jinxed everything the other night.

Instead, Quinn hugs her tightly and gets this constipated look on her face, like she's actually been injured by Santana's disappearing act.

"What do you want me to say?" she says, trying to keep her voice as indifferent as possible while Erin and the rest of her entryway are easily within earshot. "I'm sorry I didn't say goodbye, alright."

The words leave her winded, and Quinn stares at her like she's an exhibition in a freak show.

"Santana, come on," Quinn sighs, tugging her coat more tightly around her body. "You didn't just forget to say goodbye. Do you have _any_ idea how much you hurt B—"

"Fuck off," she snaps, her entire body clenching at the idea of doing this here, because no, Quinn fucking Fabray doesn't get to _really like to see_ her, and then ride in on her high horse and tell her what she doesn't know. "Do _you_ have any idea how much she hurt _me_?"

"Santana—"

"—No, okay." God, she's not even upset, she's just mad. "Tell her whatever you want. But stay the hell away from me with whatever this was supposed to be."

…

Harvard wins, but not even the thought that Quinn's heading home a goddamn loser manages to make her give a single, solitary fuck.

…

November 22, 2012

There's turkey on in Annenberg, but she's never really liked it so the food itself isn't something she gives a shit about.

She was supposed to have gone home for Thanksgiving, but she hadn't been lying about the three papers she has due. She just—

There's no _just_ about the breath-stealing ache she thought was finally gone. It's easier to just lie in her bed and blame Quinn, and Mike, and Stanford, and every other thing in her entire life, back to her first day of kindergarten.

Fuck kindergarten. God, what the fuck is wrong with her?

…

She gets a text from Erin at about 10pm that just says _HAPPY [emoji of a drumstick] DAY_ , followed by seven beer glass emojis, and it occurs to her that she's become friends with people she hates almost as much as the people she was friends with in high school, and the thought alone makes her cry, because happy fucking thanksgiving.

 _that's a chicken, dumbass_ , she texts back an hour later, and she gets a screen full of emojis poking their tongues out in return.

…

December 3, 2013

She walks in on Lisa and Erin making out on the couch in their common room.

She honestly doesn't have the words for how much she hates these people right now, especially when they don't even seem to notice her walking by to get to her room.

…

December 11, 2012

Widener Library is fly as hell, but at this point in the semester it's packed with twitchy-eyed undergrads, and when her phone starts ringing while she's studying for her _Social Analysis_ final, there's a genuine spike of fear as everyone around her turns to glare.

After a mad dash to the exit she bothers to look at the caller ID, she answers the phone with a "Mami, I'm in the library!"

"Sorry, sorry, but I'm on the internet and your flights will disappear if I don't take them now."

It's late, and there aren't many people around. Her voice echos off the high ceilings, and she tucks her hands inside her sleeves and heads outside. It's cold but not bitterly so, and she watches for her breath as she settles on the steps, "Okay, talk to me about flights."

Her breath materializes, and she grins at the sky. She's been waiting what feels like months for it to finally be cold enough, the first real sign of Christmas.

"Now I won't even suggest the 22nd, because I know you'll be tired," her Mami says, annoyance and affection in her voice. "But will the 23rd suit Ms Lopez?"

"It's fine," she grins. "Whenever you can get." She really doesn't care; despite the way things went at Parents Weekend, despite missing Thanksgiving because of whatever, this is _Christmas_.

"Well then it's the 23rd whether you like it or not." Santana laughs at that, because she's not sure she had a choice anyway. "It can't be the 24th, because we're getting your Uncle from the airport and there won't be time to get you both and get back to your abuela's—"

"Ugh."

"—after we drop you off at home."

The words stop her, because what had she been thinking? Of course she's not going to Christmas dinner at Abuela's. But then…

"Why are you going there?" They didn't go last year; any of them. And as far as she was concerned, they never would be, not until things between them changed. "What am I supposed to do?"

What _is_ she supposed to do, celebrate Christmas on her own? What the hell kind of bullshit is that? It's her favorite holiday and they're just going to— what?

"Santana," her Mami sighs. "We'll only be there for an hour or two. She's— she's getting old, mija, it wouldn't be right."

Nothing's ever right, not when it comes to her, and she can feel the blood pulsing in her ears she's so instantly, furiously upset. She can't even have her favorite holiday, even though it's half destroyed _anyway_ and—

"No, of course not," she says, voice strangled. "You know what? Don't worry about those flights."

"Santana—"

"No. You have Christmas with Abuela and I'll see you at Spring Break or whatever."

She thumbs at the end call button. She—

Honestly, she's got no idea what to do, so she goes back inside, and after five minutes of glaring at her textbook she goes back out again and thumbs into her contacts.

"Hey," she says when the line connects.

"Hey, what's up? Thought you were studying."

She thought so too.

"Mike, what are you doing for Christmas?"

…

December 12, 2012

Harvard has this insane streaking tradition on the final night of reading week. But Primal Scream started out as a night where for everyone would gather and for ten minutes just scream their heads off.

Watching the parade of butt naked idiots dashing through the snow, Santana kind of wishes she could scream for ten minutes.

…

December 20, 2012

The thought of another can of Red Bull makes her want to vomit, and she's pretty sure she's got carpal tunnel. She's been in the library for 17 hours. Her Studies of Women, Gender, and Sexuality final is in 12. She honestly never thought she'd be in a place where she doesn't want to read about another woman discovering the orgasm, but here she is.

She hasn't thought about being a waitress in months now, but staring at the darkness outside Lamont she kind of has that urge again.

…

December 23, 2012

"Holy crap, you have a lot of things," Mike says, eyeing her bags warily.

She tosses the last one against the wall, and sinks onto Mike's couch gratefully. "Not my fault they kick us out for the holidays."

They're silent for a while, and she tries to think about the last time she spent any real time with Mike. It had to have been sophomore year, before— everything, and if it was after that she doesn't care to think about it. She does remember that Mrs Chang made really awesome sweet tea.

She's exhausted, finals only finishing yesterday afternoon and she'd had to pack through her hangover this morning, but she doesn't want to sit around with nothing but Mike and her brain to keep her company. "Wanna go get drunk and find some trouble?"

"Only if you promise not to punch me this time," Mike says, and he sounds like he's joking until, "I won't bring up, you know." He waves his hand around vaguely, which is probably a good thing.

"Yeah, thanks." But she is thankful, and as much as she doesn't want to remember shit, she's grateful Mike knows her well enough to know it.

…

December 24, 2012

It's possible she's a little drunk. Alright, it's possible she's a lot drunk, but not so drunk that she can't be grateful that Mike's roommate Dave is gone home for Christmas, so she doesn't even have to sleep on the couch.

She'd been weirded out about sleeping in the bed of some guy who she's never met, but right now she's grateful because somehow they found _the_ place where all the hot, non-celebrating people go to drink on Christmas Eve, and the whole having a bed thing has become a necessity.

Like, if she was about to have this orgasm while standing up it would probably be a problem, kind of necessity.

Maybe she should feel weirder about fucking some girl in another person's bed, more than she did about just sleeping in it, but it's a little too late to think about that when she's already got someone else's hand between her legs, and doing a damn fine job of it, too.

She and Mike and these two girls had just been talking, waiting for a turn at the pool table, and then next thing she knows they're going back to Mike's to— something. She must have missed what the something was, but it turned out to be a really hot girl watching Santana watch Mike and the other girl disappear into Mike's room, and then asking, "So are we going to fuck, or what?"

In her entire life, Santana has never been that blunt about anything, ever, but she finds herself oddly taken by the whole thing, and she pushes the girl backwards through Mike's apartment and into the bedroom that's only temporarily hers.

So, hand between her legs is kind of trumping someone else's bed for brain space.

She's glad she's drunk because she doesn't think about how this body against hers feels wrong. And she's glad she's drunk because after she comes she doesn't cry, just lies there and pants thinly for a while. It's much more interesting to push the girl back into the mattress and see what sounds she can drag out of her.

"You can stay if you like," she says as the girl lies there catching her breath, and then pulls the covers over herself and falls asleep.

…

December 25, 2012

The sunlight pouring through the window is painful and she rolls away from it, pulling the pillow over her head. Through the pounding headache she can tell they had a good night, and there's an ache in places she knows she can't reach.

Stretching feels good, and she rolls back over, searching out the warmth that…

That's confusing, because there isn't room to roll over in the single in her dorm. She gives herself a moment, but she can't think of anything to do with it, so she opens her eyes, the sight of some random dude's bedroom only just managing not to confuse the fuck out of her.

Her head whips to the side, seeking out— shit, what was her name?— but the bed's empty.

That's…

She doesn't even feel bad about it. That she didn't even know her name, sure, but that it was good and now it's over without any next day awkwardness? Not so much. She feels _good_ and who the hell is she to question such a rare occurrence?

Her spine cracks as she rolls out of bed, stretching as she sucks in a breath that makes her lungs burn, and as she tugs a shirt over her head she spots a bruise the size of Texas on the inside of her thigh. That's probably really rude, a breach of some kind of one night stand etiquette, but much like the invitation she'd first received, Santana finds herself somewhat taken by the whole encounter.

Mike's making french toast when she reaches the kitchen, and he stops to eye her for a moment before he pulls a jug of Bloody Mary out of the fridge and pours her a glass without question.

"So… high five?" he asks once she's seated at the bench.

She snorts her into her glass, but holds up her hand for him to slap. "Merry christmas, Mike."

…

She really wishes she wasn't drunk for this.

"Me-merry Christmas, Mami." Even to her own ears she sounds completely blitzed.

"Merry Christmas, Mija," her Mami says down the phone, and if Santana can hear the alcohol in her own voice, she sure as hell can hear the disappointment in her mother's.

…

January 15, 2012

The rest of winter break is, um.

Nothing says Merry Christmas _and_ Happy New Year like a whole bunch of orgasms.

And okay, they also lazed around watching a bunch of really shitty movies, and after four months of feeling like her brain was constant at maximum capacity, and ignoring her parents' calls, this has been the most chill she's felt in…

A really fucking long time.

It's weird, because she doesn't like sharing and she doesn't like guys, so the only reason she's been able to tolerate Mike for so long is that he's a decent dude. She pretty much knew this, but she figured prolonged exposure would prove otherwise.

Even when she uses all the hot water, it still takes him fifteen minutes to bang on the bathroom door.

"Alright already," she calls back at him, and ten minutes later he pushes her towel off her hair when she finally emerges in a cloud of steam. It kind of reminds her of being with the Cheerios, and she almost tells Mike that but it's probably weird so she just buys him a beer when they reach the bar.

…

She's leaving in two days, and apparently Mike's going to miss her.

"You're way quieter in bed than Dave is," he says, then laughs at the way her face blushes so hard she feels like she's burning up.

"You suck," she mutters, but he nudges her until she taps her beer bottle against his.

…

January 18, 2013

"Yes!" Connie squawks, pumping her fist like some housewife on The Price is Right, even as the coin they just flipped is still rolling around on the table.

"What up, roomie," Lisa says, and Santana nudges her, because seriously, the girl is so good-natured it's disgusting.

Celebrating their new living arrangements seems like the thing to do, though she has no idea why other than they both managed to avoid a semester stuck sharing with Connie now that she's won Santana's former room, and they head up to some bar with Erin and a bunch of other people that Santana really only knows from Halloween.

Moving all her boxes of shit can wait until later.

…

February 1, 2013

By the end of Shopping Week, it feels as though she's back where she was in September again.

For lack of giving a damn, she gets the professor for _Self, Serenity, and Vulnerability_ to sign her Study Card for her Ethical Reasoning requirement, and figures if she can't work out what the hell she wants, maybe a class can.

…

February 5, 2013

There's an email thread that keeps going missing, and as she's digging around her gmail account to find it she realizes at some point she redirected all her Facebook notifications to the spam folder.

She's pretty sure the speed at which she gets out of the folder probably broke some kind of computering record.

…

February 13, 2013

"We thought you were a nerd," Erin says, dropping her empty shot glass against the table.

Santana's not sure how to take that.

They're doing a Day Before Couples Are Gross thing, and apparently whatever she walked in on before the break isn't happening anymore, because Erin had been enthusiastic about coming along, and so Lisa had trailed along too.

"Not that you're, you know," Lisa waves her hand vaguely in Santana's direction. "But you practically lived in your room until Winter break. Other than Halloween, did you have _any_ fun last semester?"

No. She really didn't.

They've been back for almost a month now, and it turns out college is fun with enough alcohol and pretty girls who don't mind getting out before she goes to sleep. Apparently winter break taught her something, too.

"You could have at gotten it out of your system when you had the single," Lisa grumbles, but it's said with such a genuine smile Santana just shrugs.

"You're welcome to hang a sock on the door any time you like," she says, winking at Erin.

When Erin blushes, eyes darting away, Santana mentally slaps herself and swallows down her beer because she did not mean it like that. Strangers are one thing, but she's not even thinking about doing anything with anyone she actually knows and can actually tolerate enough to call a friend.

She could kiss Mike for his timing as he drops into his seat next to hers before she has a chance to say anything else stupid, and she quickly busies herself with refilling her glass from the pitcher of whatever crap Mike's bought for them.

…

February 14, 2013

There's just no way she's doing this day, and when she hears Lisa moving around before classes she buries herself under her quilt and decides it's as good a place as any to not think about anything for the day.

…

March 3, 2013

She actually gets a C on a paper, and she's not actually surprised.

…

March 15, 2013

"That girl's been staring at you since we sat down."

Santana opens her eyes for a moment, blinking at the empty page of her notebook. She straightens in her seat, hating this class even more as the seat creaks beneath her. Stupid old theater.

"Who?" she asks, leaning against Erin—way more comfortable than these wooden benches.

"Down there," Erin replies, pointing at some girl who quickly looks away, the movement letting Santana know exactly who Erin means. Fuck.

"Yeah…" she sighs, slumping down in her seat. "It might be time to stop fucking girls I meet on campus."

The guy in the row in front of them nearly falls out of his seat as he jerks around to look at her.

…

March 17, 2013

Erin's suitemate is also named Mike. To avoid confusion they call him Tall Mike. Harvard makes people smart _and_ clever.

Tall Mike is also like a freaking superhero, because he carries her home like a sack of potatoes, and that's really all she remembers about St Patrick's Day.

…

March 20, 2013

In her attempts to not shit where she eats, so to speak, she's actually putting a bit of effort into this girl at their regular bar. Santana saw her last week, and they'd made eyes at each other, but that was as far as she'd gotten then.

The girl's short and cute and her name's Melinda, and if she touches Santana's leg one more time, she's not going to stop herself.

"So you really don't like the Red Sox?" Melinda asks for the third time, and Santana smiles at it, because it's so dumb. Who even cares about baseball? But apparently this girl does, so she must be a local, which suits her just fine.

"It's not that I don't like them," she says, leaning in closer. Boston girls are maybe as easy as high school football players if you know the right buttons to push. "I've just never had anyone teach me about baseball."

Melinda's hand settles on Santana's knee as she breathes out a laugh, and when it shifts up to her thigh, that's all the encouragement Santana needs, and she leans in further, brushing her lips across Melinda's briefly, and then waits to see what happens next.

Twenty minutes later and her lips are tingling, but she hasn't stopped because this girl can do this thing with her tongue that's just—

"Hey, Mel," a voice calls out, and Melinda pulls away. "Time to go."

Santana blinks against the light of the bar, her eyes having unadjusted after being closed for a while, and there's some meathead in what she swears to god is a NASCAR tee, and for like two seconds she's genuinely afraid for her life, this guy's arms are so big he could hammer her into the ground like a nail.

But all that happens is Melinda hops down from her bar stool, and smiles up at Santana as she wraps her arm around Meathead's barrel arm with a, "Bye, Santana."

"What—"

They disappear into the crowd, and what the _fuck_ just happened?

"Did you see that?" she asks when she rejoins their group, stealing Mike's glass and downing the rest of his drink to get rid of what is apparently the taste of Faux Lesbian Slut Juice.

"We thought you were about to die," Mike says, barely managing to hide his amusement.

"And you didn't even try to come help me out? Just in case?" She steals the rest of his pitcher. "Fuck you, asshole, some friend you are."

And fuck this bar full of straight girls, she's going back to the Harvard undergrads who at least commit to their experimentation long enough to give her an orgasm.

…

A couple hours later and she definitely can't taste anything but beer.

"I hate girls," she moans, flopping back against the booth they've moved to. "They're the actual worst."

"Sure doesn't sound like you hate girls from where I've been sleeping on the couch outside our bedroom."

"Fuck you," she slurs at Lisa. "You don't know my life."

"Honey," Erin says, sliding closer and wrapping an arm around her shoulder. "I hate to break it to you, but we know you're gay. That means you don't hate girls."

"I do, too," she says, shoving Erin away as the rest of the table laughs. "I could sleep with any guy here."

"Why would you want to?" Lisa asks, looking grossed out by the idea. That's because _she's_ a lesbian.

"Because," Santana says, proud of her argument, and pulls herself up from between Erin and Tall Mike.

She stands up in her seat and onto the table, stepping across the scattered glasses, and is about to jump down when Mike, her Mike not Tall Mike, grabs her around the waist and sets her on the ground. "Where are you off to?"

"To fuck a guy!" she declares, trying to pull away from Mike.

He nearly chokes on his own spit at that, and as he coughs a little he pulls her back into the booth. "Remember how you said I was an asshole for not coming to save you earlier?"

"No," she grumbles, trying to push him out of the way, even though she does remember that.

"Well this is me not being an asshole, and saving you from yourself."

"But I want to," she whines, and Mike pats her shoulder. Jerk.

…

It's nearly closing, but it's also a Monday night so they're the last people in the bar.

"Would you really sleep with a guy again?" Mike asks out of nowhere, breaking the winding down silence they've been sitting in as they finish their drinks.

"I dunno," she shrugs. She's never really thought about it in terms of not being with a guy. It's not like she hated it, it just wasn't what she wanted. Isn't what she wants. It's always been about _wanting_ girls, even though guys are fine. Fine isn't really what you want after you've had… way more than just fine. But that's no reason to say no for all eternity. "I guess so."

"Really?" He seems fascinated.

"Yeah."

Hell, she'd probably sleep with Mike, if he was down to give her an orgasm or two. He's a good guy, he'd probably do it, too, if she asked.

"I'd fuck you," she says, laughing as she says it because this evening has taken a weird turn.

"Really?" Mike says again, blinking intensely at her. "Like… really?"

…

They make out in the cab the entire way back to Mike's place, and, yeah. Mike's a good guy.

 


End file.
